


Out of the Mouth of Babes

by Jaeh



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Asexual Character, Content Warnings and triggers will be at the ending note of each chapter, Established Relationship, Gen, I have no idea what Martin does yet but let's assume Martin is really good at it and he loves it, Inspired by all those teacher fics out there, M/M, Post-everything in the Podcast, Substitute Teacher Jonathan Sims, Supply Teacher Jonathan Sims, Teacher Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, assumed happy ending, canon ships, possible season 5 spoilers, you guys are awesome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:41:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25478605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaeh/pseuds/Jaeh
Summary: Children get scared too. Good thing Jon is always there to help, at the right place, at the right time.(Jon as a supply/substitute teacher in different classrooms helping kids of different ages against the hold of Entities. With nuggets of Jon/Martin fluff at the end of each section, and occasional friends as guests. Updates every 1-2 weeks, more or less.)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 251
Kudos: 538





	1. The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> So I honestly just started listening this July because of thevorpalsword, and I'm now on Statement 128 and spoiled beyond belief from skipping around and reading the wiki *laughs nervously*. Anyway, so I explored the fanfics and found all these lovely, lovely Teacher Jon fics and I needed to make my own because I was inspired! I'd longed to write some teacher-centric fics and this is the perfect time to do it!
> 
> Apologies, by the way for any Americanisms (I haven't written in Britspeak for so long) and if I butchered the Educational System in UK, so let's just pretend that this is fiction (it is) and there's something supernatural in the air lending to this. (Asked a friend - apparently I'm not doing too bad! Noice.)
> 
> This fic assumes that everything is over and Jon, Martin, and everyone else (except you, Elias) came out mostly fine, and Jon still has a tiny bit of the Eye in him, just enough to be magical to children. I hope y'all enjoy reading. Thanks to my ever-present beta thevorpalsword for looking this over, introducing this fandom, and enabling my writing habits.

When Erin Collins turns four, she meets a not-scary man. He isn’t the opposite of scary, not quite, but he is not _not_ scary either. He watches them as she plays with her paints and blocks and art clay and dolls she may have brought from home even if toys from home aren't allowed at school, and he never says anything. Well, it _is_ free play time, and she _is_ allowed to choose whatever she wants, and so she just waves to this not-scary man and smiles brightly.

The not-scary man smiles back. He has hair up in a messy bun, weird, interesting scars all over his face that Erin has always wanted to poke fingers in, just to see, and he’s neither big nor small, but he definitely isn’t tall. His name is Mr Sims, and he’s her teacher for the day. Ms Hooper came down with the sniffles this morning they told them, and Mr Sims is to be her replacement.

Erin supposes, as she takes her black crayon and smears it all over the paper, that there is something comforting with how the man watches over her. She’s overheard other adults talk about Mr. Sims before, that he is creepy, like he stares at you and knows your innermost thoughts and sees all your secrets and your life and what you do and think and speak. But, well... Erin doesn’t think so. He feels comfortable, like how a night light does, you know? Erin thinks he can make the darkness in her room go away. He just seems like he can.

“Hello, Miss Collins,” Mr Sims greets, and she looks up at him, and beams. “I see that you are spending your time in the art corner today.”

Erin nods, and with all the seriousness she can muster, points at her drawing. “This lives in my house.” She looks at the dark smudge on the paper, and doesn’t like the way it seems to eat the white, but it is what it is. “It starts in the corner of my room, and it’s really cold. I don’t like it.”

Mr Sims looks concerned, but not in the way that Ms Hooper was when she first saw this drawing and first heard Erin speak of it. Her mum and dad seemed upset when they found out what she’s been drawing repeatedly at school. Erin was told to forget about the darkness, and was bought a nightlight that day.

The nightlight helps, but only just. Sometimes, while she watches, the dark spreads, and she has to grab a torch to shine it away. Her mum and dad got upset when they found out that she finished the batteries on all of the emergency torches, but eventually they gave up and bought her her own. The torch helps, but the light switch helps most, but that isn’t allowed after lights out.

No, Mr Sims looks concerned, but not in the way that most adults would be. He looks almost angry, actually, his shoulders frozen like when her dad was mad, and Erin scoots back a bit, unsure. Mr Sims seems to somehow realise that he has scared Erin a little bit, and relaxes and smiles. “I’m not upset with you, Erin,” he explains, and Erin relaxes some more. “I just don’t like that it resides in your house. It has no right to be there.”

The way he speaks about the dark makes it sound more like it’s an unwanted pest, and Erin decides that she likes that. It makes it less scary somehow, less, what was that word she heard from the telly once, oh, menacing. Yes. That. Less of that, more of a nuisance - whatever that word meant. She’s heard her mum say it, and it sounds appropriate. 

“Yes, that’s right,” Mr. Sims says, still smiling, brighter now. Erin isn’t aware she said anything, but if Mr. Sims heard it, then that’s better. Adults aren’t too good at listening, anyway, and it’s nice to meet someone whom she doesn’t have to explain things to. “It is a nuisance - that means, something that is annoying. If you think about it that way, it becomes less scary, don’t you think?”

Erin nods. Mr. Sims hands her a lolly stick, and she starts scratching through the black smear. It deserves eyes, and a big nose, and a mouth. There. 

She made a face, with its eyebrows drawn and its tongue sticking out, like how her older sister Molly would tease her until Erin gets annoyed and calls for her dad. The dark seems like nothing now. 

“Would you like my picture? I think I’m done with it,” Erin says, and picks up the drawing to hand to her teacher. Mr Sims nods seriously and thanks her in his soft, comforting tone, and leaves. 

Erin looks outside, and sees the bright sun shining down on the playground. Mr Sims asks them to get ready for group time, and Erin packs away her crayons, and skips towards her spot.

She is certain she’ll get good sleep tonight.

\---

“How was your day?”

A pair of arms envelop him from behind, and Jon puts down the cup that he is drying on the kitchen counter. A hand catches his, and starts rubbing soothing circles into his palm.

“I chased away a monster for a child today,” Jon says off-handedly, and he can tell Martin is smiling into his hair. He just knows.

“Another superhero moment for Mr Blackwood-Sims?” Martin says, and Jon chuckles a little. 

“Children are more susceptible, somehow. It’s more _primal_ , for them,” Jon explains. He turns around, and kisses Martin on the cheek. “Children _know_ fear, and I want them not to be afraid. Their innocence… it’s quite relaxing. Nothing to hide, nothing to See but what’s in front of me.”

“Just your average, ordinary, everyday superhero-”  
  
“Who just happens to See everything, you’ve said before,” Jon finishes, amused. “It was the Dark.”

“Ah,” Martin says, and they both grow quiet. They hold hands quietly for a while, and Martin gives Jon another kiss before the broader blond turns and continues what Jon was doing. Jon passes him the next dish, and they work in silence before Martin speaks up again.

“I just remember that kid in the Dark, you know?”

“Callum,” Jon supplies, and Martin nods. 

“Yes, him. He’s so young, and he didn’t deserve it.”

“No, he didn’t,” Jon agrees. “So when young Erin’s rooms suddenly felt cold, with pockets of black and darkness, I had to do something, to empower her to not Fear it, so it would leave. She was clearly distressed. The drawings were quite graphic, you could feel it in each bold stroke of the crayon.”

“As I said, a superhero to preschoolers everywhere,” Martin teases once more, and Jon laughs this time. “I call it as I see it. You’re doing good, Jon.”

“For one child at a time.”

“It matters to them, trust me,” Martin says, and he puts the last few dishes in the cupboard. “It matters a lot. Expect more calls as a supply teacher or as an assistant in the future.”

“I hope so,” Jon responds. “I… quite liked it,” he admits, and Martin lights up the room with his smile once more.

“And trust me, Mr Sims, they liked you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings and possible triggers for Chapter 1: Fear of the dark, Parents not listening to children


	2. The Lonely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy hell's freaking bells I am just FLOORED by all of this. I... whoa. Massive whoa. Thank you for the support you guys! 
> 
> To show sign of life (I swear I have 5 chapters ready and I write more each day) I'm posting early-ish. The surviving crew makes an appearance! I hope you enjoy! As always beta'd by the amazing thevorpalsword.
> 
> Warnings at the end of the chapter.

First days are the  _ worst _ , and no matter how many times his mother tells him that everything is going to be okay, they never cease to be terrible. 

Nobody ever  _ sees _ him, ever! And it just.. It just really sucks.

Sometimes, he feels like a ghost walking through the school halls. It’s cliche, and his old English teacher would have been very disappointed, but it’s true. It’s  _ exactly  _ how it felt, and he walks and walks and walks and it is like walking through a field of greys and fog and  _ nothing _ . At some point, the students and people that walk around him start blending together, and he can’t tell who is which is what is when or why.

He looked it up online.  _ Prosopagnosia _ , it says, but it feels wrong somehow? He can tell what his mother looks like, can hold her in his mind’s eye. The way she used to smile before his father died, the sparkle in her eyes when he opened Christmas presents with his parents looking over him, cocoa in their hands. The wrinkling of her nose when he did a prank that his mother didn’t quite like, but found hilarious and tried to hide her amusement. Her soft, blonde hair, and the smell of her perfume that made him feel at home. But lately it’s getting lost, and if she’s not near, he realises that he can’t even remember what she sounds like.

Whatever it is, he can’t name it, and he is afraid. 

He gets to class. He sits down. He listens. He takes down notes. He raises his hand, and slowly puts it down when the teacher calls someone else.

He doesn’t even get called on, anymore, not even during attendance. The teacher just looks at him, looks  _ past _ him, and makes a check on the paper without calling him. It’s almost like he doesn’t exist.

And sometimes, what scares him the most, is that it feels… okay. It feels comfortable. Even if he knows, deep down, he screams, that it isn’t. That this isn’t okay, it isn’t safe to be alone.

He arrives at his empty house. His mother is always away at work. Has been, ever since he was old enough to let himself inside the house and reheat a boxed dinner or order pizza. 

At first, moving from place to place felt exciting.  His mother's energy was infectious, and he was happy to see her looking forward to something again. Her first posting for the State Department was India, to work in the embassy. When it came time to move, he had been nervous, scared even to leave the house he'd grown up in. The house where they'd lived with his father, with all their handprints pressed into the cream paint on the wall over the fireplace. He didn't want to go, but his mother reminded him that they had to stick together. It was just the two of them now, and they had to be there for each other.

After India, it was Japan. Then the Philippines. Then Italy. Then Germany. Then Indonesia.  It’s like once she started, his mom couldn't stop running. It was like she only found relief when they were on the move.

Now he’s in England, and he feels so lost.

He vaguely hears the announcement of the human-shaped silhouette. New teacher, temporary - those are the only words he catches. He slumps in his seat, and doodles circles on his notebook. He doesn’t look up.

“Martin - oh. Martin Robinson?” 

He’s heard that name before. Martin Robinson.

“Here,” he hears himself say. And then it registers: He’s Martin Robinson, and someone  _ sees _ him.

“Yes, Martin,” there is a curl of fondness in the voice, “I can See you.”

His classmates all turn around to look at him, and Martin feels exposed, but the new teacher continues. “I’m Mr Sims, you might not have heard before. Everyone, this is Martin, and he’s new to the country and your classroom.”   
  
“Country? You’ve been to other countries?” A girl asks - Tasha, Martin remembers, she… how does Martin know her? That wasn’t important though - Tasha sees him, and Tasha is smiling, leaning over, and is touching the pencil case he bought from a tourist shop in Indonesia before their flight. “This is pretty! Can I borrow it?”

“Tasha, you’ll scare him off! You have to ease into these things - hey, I’m Aaron. Martin, yea? How’re you getting on?”

Aaron, with his large glasses and bright shock of red hair, is holding out a fist, and Martin bumps it tentatively. “That’s on, mate. Hey, Mr Sims said we should show you ‘round school today, you up for it?”

Mr Sims did say something of the sort, but the warmth of having people surround him is distracting, but the good kind of distraction, not the sort that makes him want to sink into his chair and disappear. 

“I… I think that’d be cool.”

“Ah! American!” A girl behind him - Selina, he thinks - pipes up. “Have you been many places? You look like the type.”

Martin looks at Mr Sims, who is walking between the rows, taking the time to look at each student, as if he is making an effort to know them. (Weird for a supply teacher, Martin decides, but it’s good. At least someone cares. Someone cares.) Mr Sims places a scarred, wrinkled hand on his shoulder - a light tap, Martin nods.

It’s nice to finally be seen.

\---

Jon never imagined he would be the type to hold weekend dinners with friends, but here he is, stirring a large pot of stew, while Martin tosses the salad behind him. Melanie and Georgie are in the lounge, chatting quietly to themselves, and it takes effort not to listen in. 

Sometimes it’s just an impulse, really, a sort of curiosity that has nothing to do with what he is, but rather,  _ who _ he is.

Martin, of course, distracts him. “This is nice, isn’t it?”

“Hm?”

“Having people over. I mean, it would have been nicer if we were  _ all _ here, but I’m just glad we survived, really,” Martin says cheerfully. Jon can hear Martin go to the fridge and rummage for something to add to their salad, and he gives out an ‘ah!’ when he finds what he is looking for. 

Jon covers the pot, and turns. “Yes, it is,” Jon says, and he is surprised that he means it. “It’s nice not to be alone.”

“You’re not, and have never been, alone,” Martin responds. His eyes are wide, and he drops whatever he’s doing, and goes towards Jon. “Are you okay, Jon?” Jon could hear the emphasis in his name, like Martin is calling him out of a fog and anchoring him to the now. Jon smiles.

“Not me, don’t worry, they wouldn’t dare,” Jon explains. “I met another Martin today.”

“Oh? How did it go?”

“He was almost gone, I was almost too late,” Jon says. He shivers, but Martin’s hands are warm on his waist. “I remembered you, and it was both harder and easier this time.”

“Got me out of there though, didn’t you? And you got him, too.”

Jon smiles. Martin kisses him on the cheek. “Well done, Jon,” Martin offers, a cheeky grin on his lips.

There was a knock on their door, and Jon can hear Georgie yell that she’s coming. “Basira and Daisy are here,” Jon says, and Martin nods.

“Oi, you lovebirds should finish up and join us! Basira brought the good stuff today!” Melanie’s voice carries through the open door, and Jon reluctantly pulls back from Martin’s embrace. 

“Ready when you are,” Jon says, and Martin nods, and hand in hand, they go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Depression, slightly "nomadic" living, loss of a parent, absent mother, solo parenting, being unseen, everything attached to The Lonely
> 
> Next post will be within 1-2 weeks. Or earlier, but definitely not later.


	3. The Vast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, back again with another chapter, this time dealing with The Vast. Warnings, as per usual, are at the end notes. Please heed them. 
> 
> Next few chapters will be heavier (and longer, I promise) as they deal with The Desolation and The Stranger, then we have The Buried. All kids will experience happy endings eventually. I promise I'll even add more Jon and Martin to some of them - think of those as having longer, er, supplementals.
> 
> Then there may or may not be an interlude. We shall see! Enough of my ramblings. 
> 
> (Betad by thevorpalsword.)

Arthur Fisher’s arms feel like jelly, but he doesn’t want to let go. It is too high, everything is too high! His feet hang hundreds of meters - no! Kilometers! - above the ground. He feels like he is flying, no, falling, no, hanging on to the rod above him, and he hears his teacher call him back inside after their break.

He lets go, and he drops. The sensation of falling feels like it won’t end, feels like that word in the book, ‘eternity’, until his teacher calls his name again, and he comes back to himself, feet fixed on the ground. He sprints back into the classroom, breathing panicked and heavy. The teacher asks if he’s okay, and he nods. 

The next day, Arthur stands on top of a tower, and the only way down is to fall, and to fall fast. Those who yell behind him, who demand that he move on, start fading, until their screams are nothing but a whistling sound in Arthur’s ear, like the wind when you’re on top of a mountain. A sheet of metal stretches out right in front of him, and he knows he is supposed to ride it down, down, down the sheer cliff he stands on. It is so long, so far, so high, a million kilometers before he would end at the bottom, it is too far, too far, he can’t - 

The bell rings, and Arthur comes back to himself. His classmates murmur behind him in irritation. Someone punches him on the shoulder lightly, telling him that he ruined outdoor play today, taking too long and holding up the line. “Maybe you just shouldn’t play,” the person mocks, and it hurts. He turns to respond, but his classmate is gone, and he is dangerously alone atop the tower.

Even if climbing down the steps is a challenge, he manages it with his eyes closed.

He starts to dread outdoor play. Today is supposed to be simple, Arthur thinks. Up, and down. Up, and down. Your friend goes up, and you go down. Then you switch.

He doesn’t come down. His friend seems so far, and is going farther, and farther away, until Arthur feels like he can touch the clouds. He’s never wanted to touch the clouds. He likes that they are out of reach. His stomach feels funny, like it’s trying to escape through his mouth and pull his lungs away with it and never come back. He can’t breathe. Why isn’t he coming down? It’s up or down, up down, up down - he’s supposed to come down! 

He falls. Arthur can hear screaming, it is  _ him _ screaming, his terror coming out in loud shrieks that hurt his own ears and it pops, like that time he and his family rode an aeroplane to see the Northern Lights. He is falling from a great height, much greater than it should be, and the next thing he sees is the nurse over him, with the headmaster hovering in concern. 

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says. “I… I thought I was falling.”

His parents are called, and he is told he is to see the school psychologist in a couple of days. 

He keeps to the sandbox from then on. No one comes near him; his shrieks of horror yesterday probably scared them as much as the playground scares him. He misses his friends; he thinks they are all afraid of him now. He misses the swing, but he’s afraid of what it will do. He feels that he will never come down again if he does climb on, and he will just fall. Forever.    
  
Maybe he needs to stop thinking this for a while. It’s making him feel funny in the tummy again, and he doesn’t want to go back to the clinic and watch the nurse look at him weird. At least the new supply teacher doesn’t know anything about what happened before.

The supply teacher looks interesting: those weird scars on his face made Arthur think he must’ve been in an accident of some kind, his face dragged through gravel, maybe? Absolutely brilliant. 

“Hello, Mr Fisher,” Mr Sims greets him, and Arthur looks up. Mr Sims does not tower above him, even if Arthur is small for his age. “How come you’re here, all alone in the sandbox? Everyone else is enjoying other places on the playground.”

“I don’t like it,” Arthur murmurs. “Everything is too high.”

Mr Sims raises an eyebrow. “Too high?”

“Yes,” Arthur responds. “I keep falling, and I think I might not come back down if I did, today.”

Mr Sims pauses and thinks. For a split second, Arthur thinks he can see his features change - eyes darkening, brow furrowed in anger, and he feels like the colors red and blue and green and it was heavy - then it goes away, and Mr Sims smiles apologetically. “It isn’t you, it’s the heights that I’m mad at. Sorry, Arthur. How about we try the swing, today?”

Arthur shakes his head. Swings can go high, and Arthur knows, he just  _ knows _ , that he won’t be able to get down. He will fall, and it will not stop.

“I’ll catch you.”

He snaps his head back to Mr Sims, who has a gentle smile. His teacher repeats himself, “I’ll catch you, and show you, there’s nothing to be scared of. I will make sure you come back down, and you will never fall like this again.”

Arthur hesitates, but there is something in Mr Sims’ eyes that makes him believe that he will. Reluctant as he is, Arthur slowly makes his way to the swing, and sits. Mr Sims stands behind him. 

“I will push you, and it will get higher, and faster,” Mr Sims says. “And if you’re falling and it doesn’t stop, find my hand, and hold on.”

Arthur nods, and closes his eyes. Mr Sims pushes. 

Slowly, he climbs. 

Then, he falls. 

He shrieks in alarm, fists clenched around the iron chains, and he remains suspended, forever falling, until he catches a hand in his, and the swing stops. Arthur exhales. It’s okay; someone’s with him. He can stop. He has stopped.

“I have you, and you will not fall,” a voice announces, and Arthur nods in determination. He’s ready to try again. 

Arthur goes down.

And swings up again, and down, and up, and back, and forth, and back, and forth, and Arthur shrieks again. 

But this time he is laughing. He opens his eyes, and Mr Sims isn’t behind him anymore. He instead stands in front of him, waving. “How’s the swing, Arthur?”

“Great!” Arthur exclaims, and he jumps off it. “I want to try the monkey bars, next!”

“Good,” Mr Sims says, and his approval makes Arthur feel warm. “Just remember that someone will always be here to keep you safe.”

“Of course,” Arthur answers, and beams at Mr Sims. “Someone will always catch me, right?”

Mr Sims nods, and Arthur runs off to play.

\---

“Another one, today?” Martin asks as Jon comes in. He lowers his knitting on the table, and stands to greet his husband with a kiss. 

“How did you know?” Jon responds, and Martin smiles at him. 

“I’ve known you now for how long? Of course I know.”

Jon nods, and they sit on the sofa. Martin crowds Jon like he always does, and Jon appreciates the proximity and warmth. Jon leans in, and Martin rests his chin on Jon’s head, anchoring him to the ground.

“A child kept falling. I merely helped him to stop,” Jon murmurs, his eyes closing. Martin smells like wool, tea, home, and comfort, and Jon melts.

Martin hums. “Well look at you, Superman.”

Jon turns to look at Martin incredulously. “What?”

“You know, catching people who fall from great heights, that sort of thing,” Martin offers, and Jon snickers. 

“I can’t fly.”

“But you do help,” Martin reminds, and he pulls Jon back in. “And that’s enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings: Fear of falling, anxiety
> 
> Heads up: Posts may go slower after this, as my break is done and I need to go back to my regular job soon. But, I'll keep to my "At Most Two Weeks" schedule, I promise!
> 
> Catch me on my tumblr: [ineffablynoice](https://ineffablynoice.tumblr.com)  
> And on my TMA sideblog with only three posts (as of now) lmao, send asks or drawing requests please: [pocketarchivist](https://pocketarchivist.tumblr.com)


	4. The Desolation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHA! Made my self-imposed deadline. Thank you, thevorpalsword, for coming through for me brilliantly. Next up (after this): The Stranger.
> 
> Also, Jon is definitely channeling Teacher Mode™️ here, so don't be too surprised with his amazing eloquence.
> 
> Content warnings at the end: please make sure to heed them.

Flick down with thumb, slide to strike, burst of heat, blow it out, quick spin, close. Flick down with thumb, slide to strike, burst of heat, blow it out, quick spin, close.

It took Alicia ages, but now she’s mastered the art of Ten on Pump 4. Youtube is the greatest tutor. She hopes to do the Ring Igniter next but her ring finger is still too weak to manage it. She wonders briefly if there’s a way to exercise your fingers.

She spins the lighter again. The case of the Zippo is worn and scratched from being dropped repeatedly over the years, but it still works. It's odd, actually, that it still works, because now that she thinks about it, her aunt definitely wouldn't have let her have it if it still had fuel in it.

It doesn’t matter; she likes it this way. She likes how when it lights, it burns. Alicia likes how it burns. Maybe that’s why her dad loved smoking so much, she’d read online that it burns as you inhale, at first. She reckons she’ll start smoking soon, s’just hard to find someone to supply her cigarettes. She doesn’t really know anyone in this area of London, at least not yet. Hard to find someone to buy cigs from if you’re a thirteen year old loser who generally keeps away from others.

She sighs, and lights the Zippo again without any of her usual, fancy tricks. She passes her fingers through the flame repeatedly, going slower each time, mentally daring herself to let the flame burn her. She wonders how much it will hurt. The next one was the slowest yet; she flinches, and drops the lighter on the grass. She closes it immediately, killing the flame with a pang of regret. 

Alicia looks up, and watches football players kick around a ball in the far distance, and she wonders what would happen if she sets the locker rooms on fire. Maybe that will quiet down whatever keeps screaming in her chest whenever she touches the cool metal of the lighter. Maybe that will kill the spikes in her gut whenever she flicks its lid open.

The flame helps. The pain dulls her senses in its bright sharpness, and sometimes she forgets why she has her pa’s Zippo in the first place.

She wonders again how it would feel to burn alive. The investigators assured her that her pa probably died of smoke inhalation. When he’d fallen asleep the lit cigarette dropped on the carpet, and the weird blend of plastic and fiber gave off plenty of smoke when it burned. But she saw how his body looked before her aunt had the casket closed. Alicia didn’t believe them when they said he didn’t suffer.

The night he died was the night Alicia’s life also ended. Losing the one parent she had was bad enough, but then her aunt had said that she’s to come with her to the other side of London because she’s her guardian now, leaving everything that she’s ever known and loved and remembered behind? Alicia might as well have died in the flames, too. Just her luck that she was at a sleepover when it happened.

A shadow looms over her, and she looks up once more. A not-very-tall man has appeared before her, leaning over, squinting behind his glasses. 

“Miss Jackson, I do not believe you’re allowed to have a lighter at school,” he says, and Alicia scoffs. 

“What’sit to you, you’re just a supply teacher,” Alicia responds, and lights the Zippo again, spinning it defiantly under the man’s gaze. “What’re you gonna do, confiscate this?”

“Yes,” the teacher simply says, and before Alicia even understands what is happening, the teacher already has the Zippo in his hands. “I’ll give it back to you at the end of the day.”

“But-” 

Alicia doesn’t even have time to protest. The teacher has already gone around the corner and back into the building. She hurriedly follows. “Give it back!” She screams, but the teacher ignores her.    
  
What was his name, what was it, what was it - she chants in her head. She barely listens in class, and this is the one time that she wishes she paid more attention - ah!

“Mr Sims! Please, I need it, I need that -”

“End of the day, Miss Jackson,” Mr Sims repeats. He has an odd expression on his face as he holds the lighter in his hand, but that isn’t what’s on Alicia’s mind. She stares at the lighter with desperation. “Now hurry along to your next lesson, please, the bell’s about to ring.” 

“But Mr Sims -” And right on cue, the bell does ring, and she is hurried along by the mass of students piling in behind her, eager to get back to their classes.

Now, Alicia knows that Mrs Potts, the one Mr Sims is replacing for the day, is on a break while she’s at her next class. She  _ also _ knows that Mr Skinner, her next teacher, wasn't in today as well, and has left them something to do with his replacement instead. She excuses herself and asks to go to the toilet, and the other supply teacher merely shrugs. Alicia tips her head in acknowledgement, slips out of the room, and hurries towards Mrs Potts’ classroom. There shouldn’t be anyone in there right now, as far as Alicia knows, and now is the perfect time to see if he hid it somewhere in Mrs Potts’ desk maybe, or it could be in his pockets, but if that’s the case Alicia doesn’t know what she’ll do then, but she has to get the lighter back, she needs it, she needs to hold it in her palm as she squeezes it tightly to know that it’s there - 

She stands in front of the door, ready to sneak in, but it opens, and out comes Mr Sims. He stops in front of her. Alicia stares at the band-aids covering his face in disbelief. It is very, very unlikely that he’s here, right now, but there he is, staring her in the face.

“Let’s talk later, Alicia, after I’m done with my break,” Mr Sims says softly. “Go back to your class.”

Alicia turns, red-faced and resigned to her fate, and goes back to her lessons. The next half hour is agony, and concentrating is all but impossible as she taps her fingers on the table and spins her pencil. Her fingers itch.

She runs straight to Mrs Potts’ room as soon as the bell rings, ignoring the protest of teachers and students alike as she speeds through the halls. Alicia bursts through the door, breathing heavily. Her hands shake.

“Please, please give it back,” Alicia all but pleads. “I need it back.”

Mr Sims waves at the seat in front of the teacher’s table, and Alicia sits down. The teacher pulls up his own chair and sits right in front of her. “They’ve told me about you, Alicia,” Mr Sims begins, and Alicia’s face twists into something sour. They told a supply teacher about her - is she really that troublesome of a student that they had to tell him? “Your teachers care,” he answers the unspoken thought in her head, and she startles a little. “And so they told me to keep an extra eye on you. It must have been difficult, what happened.”

Alicia refuses to even open her mouth. Spare me the lesson, she thinks, and Mr Sims says, “I’m not here to lecture you. I’m just here to ask about how you are. It’s never easy to deal with loss, and that’s okay.”

“Are you here really to lecture me about loss?” Alicia spits back. “I know what loss feels like. My pa is dead.”

It is the first time she’s ever said it aloud, and she hiccups in surprise. Her eyes start to water, and she repeats it again in a whisper. “My pa, my pa is dead, he’s gone and he’s never coming back.”

She starts crying in earnest, tears running down her cheeks and snot threatens to drip from her nose and she really didn’t want to use her sleeve, but then Mr Sims hands her a box of tissues and she takes one gratefully. Once she starts crying, it takes a while to stop, and she sobs as she remembers the grey peppered through his pa’s hair, the crinkle in his eyes as he smiled, and the smell of the Sterlings that he prefers to smoke curling around her whenever she goes home, that blue jumper that he loves wearing as much as possible because her ma made it before she left them, and his kind, grey eyes that laughed whenever she does something ‘very clever, luv,’ and she cries and cries until she runs out of tears and her throat feels scratchy like sandpaper. 

Mr Sims hands her a glass of water. “I can see that you’re sad, that you’re hurt. You don’t have to hold it in. You can let it go. You can cry for him, and look at his photos, and hold his lighter in your hands,” he says, and Alicia nods. “ _To live in this world you must be able to do three things,”_ Mr Sims shows her the lighter, and she stares at it. “ _To love what is mortal; to hold it,_ ” He closes his fist over the lighter. “ _And, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go.”_ Mr Sims opens his palm, and places the lighter on the table. “From Mary Oliver.” 

Alicia hiccups again, and Mr Sims smiles kindly. There’s no pity in his eyes, just sadness, like he was sad with her. “He’ll always be with you, Alicia. There’s no need to hang on so tightly that you bleed, because he will always be here with you, even if he’s gone.” Mr Sims taps his chin, and then tips his head at her pocket. Alicia furrows her brow, confused, until she realises she hides her phone there, even if it isn’t allowed at school. “How about keeping his picture on your phone instead? Remember him for who he was, for how he loved you. For his memories and light.”

Mr Sims gestures at the lighter on the table. “I don’t think I’ll be seeing this again today,” he says with certainty. “You may feel empty for now, but you will be filled again, soon. The pain will ebb, and the memories will strengthen your heart until it gets easier. It will just take time.”

Alicia takes the lighter, expecting the feeling of the greedy need to let her pain out through some kind of willful destruction - either by playing with flame on her fingers, or setting something on fire. But the lighter held nothing like that, not anymore. She feels flickers of it in the back of her mind, loss that wants to eat her alive, but she also remembers how her pa smiles at her whenever she hands him the same Zippo when asked for. She exhales, and leaves the room for the next class.

As she walks on the way home, she passes by the park. It is one of her pa’s favorite places whenever they visit her aunt. He’d always bring her there, watching her chase after dogs she doesn’t own, feed the pigeons with whatever crackers they’d bought, or just playing a fun game of frisbee with his pa. She holds the cool metal of her pa’s lighter in her hands, sits on a bench, then cries.

She gets up, wipes her tears, and takes a picture of the park with her phone. Then she goes home.

The next day, Alicia lovingly leaves the Zippo in her desk drawer. It won’t light anymore, and that’s probably for the best. She looks at her phone. Her pa smiles brightly at her from the lit screen.

\---

“It feels like it was just yesterday, when you’re in the middle of all this,” Martin says, and Jon nods in agreement. He stoops, and places the flowers on the ground, in front of the candles Martin lit. A small plaque stands, with two names, in the middle of the rubble. As far as Jon knew, no one’s bought the land, and as far as Jon is concerned, no one will. 

When it ended, the Institute all but burnt to a husk, even the tunnels found beneath had collapsed in on themselves. Nothing was left, but what they lost.    
  
There were a couple of tapes beside the small memorial, and a copy of a polaroid snapped by Tim himself when he’d once experimented with photography. They found it in the former assistant’s desk when they cleared it out, and Martin had been the one to take it home. They’d almost forgotten about it with  _ everything _ that happened afterwards but when Jon found it again after a flat-cleaning fit, they made copies and decided on a memorial for people they desperately want to remember.

Neither of them remembered who the tall woman was, with her hair to her waist and rimless glasses above a happy smile; but knew it was, without a doubt, the Sasha they were supposed to remember. The photo itself is askew - it was one of Tim’s worst attempts, and by the time he got it right Jon had successfully hid from his team back in his office. This one photo had caught him just so with his eyes wide and expression slightly annoyed with how Tim pulled him in as he took the shot. Sasha crowded beside Jon as Martin squeezed himself in on the other side. 

The couple is silent, and Martin hands Jon his handkerchief. Jon looks at his husband, confused, and Martin gestures at his face. Jon isn’t even aware that he’d started crying. Martin soothingly places a hand on his cheek, and gently removes one of the band-aids he usually wore when working at a secondary school. “One of the students I handled: she was blazing in blistering pain of fresh loss destroyed by fire, and she held on so tightly that it set her aflame, and she relished in it even as she burned. I had to remind her of how to let go, how to remember the light instead of being consumed,” Jon murmurs, and Martin nods at his story of the day. They both go quiet again, and Jon leans into Martin’s side.

“I miss them, too,” Martin says. Jon smiles. Martin doesn’t need anything special to know John; he simply does.

They stand there for a while longer. Martin tells Jon a story he’s heard a million times about one of Tim’s pranks that went awry, and they talk about the team’s first and last foray into karaoke nights that makes Jon erupt into peals of laughter whenever he’s reminded of how badly it went.

Jon wraps his arm around Martin’s waist, and Martin puts his around Jon’s shoulder. “Ready when you are,” Martin says, and Jon nods.

They’ll visit again, soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: loss of parent (dad), loss in general, thoughts of self-harm, almost self-harm, thoughts of arson, The Desolation and everything that comes with it


	5. The Stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, PLEASE heed the tags at the end of this fic! The subject matter is pretty serious in this one. 
> 
> As always, betad by thevorpalsword, who always comes through, woo! 
> 
> (Next chapter: The Buried. One of my most favorite bits.)
> 
> Again, CHECK TRIGGER WARNINGS AT THE END CHAPTER NOTES.

People are terrifying. 

No, _new_ people are terrifying. Anyone Kyle doesn’t _know_. They may take you, and they’ll never give you back, _especially_ if you do something bad. Something not okay. Something that your grandma doesn’t like. They’ll give him away if he messes up again.

When he was six, they _did_ try. He just wanted the toy car, really, and they had been promising for a while now that they were going to buy him a toy that he wanted. So he asked, and asked, and asked, and they got mad. 

Grandma said it plainly, “Keep doing that, and I’ll give you to that man, over there.”

At first, Kyle was _certain_ she was kidding. There was no way that they would give him away. That wasn’t allowed, was it? They love him, so why would he be given away? And… and to a stranger, no less? Surely not. That was ridiculous.

The man was tall, lanky, with a blue jacket and a hat that looked like what the policemen wore? No, the man was tall, lanky, with arms that stretched to the floor, like that 'Slenderman' being that his brother kept on scaring him with. The Slenderman will get you, his brother would joke, and they will give you away to that stranger, over there, his auntie would scold, and that policeman will take you away, his grandma would insist, and at that exact moment, he _believed_ them. 

The man was short, with long hair under the cap, and thin. The man was blond, with white skin. He was dark with black hair. 

Who the man was changed in his dreams every day, and all he knew was that they would take him, and this was the day it would happen.

The man reached out for him, and Kyle froze, not crying, not anything - just froze, stood there, and the man’s finger brushed against his arm _like so_ , and Kyle shrieked. He screamed a shrill NO and backed away, and ran to his grandma and auntie and begged, and promised that he will be good, he will always be good, he will never do it again.

Kyle never did anything again.

His teachers always remark that he’s a quiet child, and that he follows rules to the letter, and doesn’t like being alone with anyone. He seems skittish around his teachers, especially during the start of the school year, when he first meets them. (The only reason he can handle school was because his fear of _being given away_ to a stranger is more terrifying than _being around_ other strangers). At the very least there are other children around, and people his age have always made him feel safe. They do not have the power to give them away. 

Adults have the power to give and take him away, and so Kyle makes sure that he is never left with any of them alone.

He makes sure that he does nothing wrong as much as possible, and will be quiet if someone gets mad. He plans every single thing he needs to do down to what he’ll play for recess, just to make sure that he’s following every bit of the rules. Something coils in his gut, something fuzzy and funny and sharp and uncomfortable every time he even _sees_ someone who might be the one to finally take him, and he is afraid.

He is always afraid.

It is almost recess, and Maths isn’t easy. There’s ten minutes left, and his classmates and friends are restless and impatient. Most of them are done, but a few of them were nowhere near and really needed help. Kyle knows he needs help; he can’t remember what 7 times 8 is and the maths problem needs him to determine how many pounds he needs if he wants to buy 28 stuffed penguins at 7 pounds a piece, and he can’t remember. Maths has never been his strongest subject, but he is trying.

The new teacher is not tall, his long hair is in a bun, his eyes are dark, and he looks friendly, but Kyle knows that means nothing.   
  
Maybe he _is_ friendly, but Kyle doesn’t know him. And that means he can take Kyle away.

The man tells those who finished early that they can go enjoy recess, and Kyle watches as people trickle out the door one by one.

He buries a hand in his curls in frustration, and tugs. 7 times 2 is 14, times 3 is 21, times 4 is 28, times 5 is 35, and add another 7 for 6 then… he scribbles all over his extra paper, just trying to add and count. He sees Sadie in the corner raising her hand and giving her worksheet proudly to the supply teacher, and then Diet does as well, and then after the supply teacher goes to help her, Katie hands hers over, and Kyle looks around the room.

He is the last one left. The man smiles at him, and Kyle’s heart starts to beat faster. 

He frantically looks around the room. His paper is still unfinished, if he leaves he might get in trouble, but Kyle cannot feel his fingers properly, and the closer the man gets, the pins and needles climb, to his wrist, his arm - the man stops.

He steps back and holds out a hand. “Mr Reyes?” 

Kyle blinks uncertainly, and whispers, “Yes?” 

“Breath.” The man says. Kyle follows. Inhale, exhale.

“Breath,” the man repeats. “Listen. You’re Kyle Reyes, and I’m Mr Sims, a supply teacher that is replacing Mr Barker for the day.”

Kyle nods absently. Everything he has is focused on breathing, in, out, in, out, and the teacher’s soft voice continues.

“Breath. Listen. You’re Kyle Reyes, and I’m Mr Sims, a supply teacher that is replacing Mr Barker for the day. You’re in your Year 4 classroom, a place you’ve known for almost half a year. You’re sitting in your chair, a chair you’ve used for months.”

Kyle does feel the press of his back against his chair, and he looks up and sees the bright blue ‘Great work will take you places!’ above the whiteboard. Mr Barker had explained to them what it meant at the start of the year, he remembers. Mr Barker is real, and he knew Mr Barker. His classroom is safe.

“Breath. Listen. You’re Kyle Reyes, and I’m Mr Sims, a supply teacher that is replacing Mr Barker for the day. You’re in your Year 4 classroom, a place you’ve known for almost half a year. You’re sitting in your chair, a chair you’ve used for months. You can smell flowers in the air and it irritates your nose - Zoe’s perfume cracked and spilled in her bag.”

Kyle sneezes, and rubs his nose. Mr Sims looks at him from afar with a calm gaze that makes him feel like someone’s staring at him from all directions, but instead of feeling exposed, it makes him feel cocooned in comfort. Someone can watch out for him, someone will see all the strangers who want to get him and keep them away.

“Breath. Listen. You’re Kyle Reyes, and I’m Mr Sims, a supply teacher that is replacing Mr Barker for the day. You’re in your Year 4 classroom, a place you’ve known for almost half a year. You’re sitting in your chair, a chair you’ve used for months. You can smell flowers in the air and it irritates your nose - Zoe’s perfume cracked and spilled in her bag. You can taste your snack on your tongue - apple. You might be looking forward to snack time.”

Kyle’s stomach growled, and he looked up with uncertainty. “I’m hungry, Mr Sims.”

“I know,” Mr Sims says. He approaches Kyle carefully, and Kyle flinches a little. Mr Sims stops, and Kyle shuts his eyes. No need to flinch, this is one of your teachers, Mr Sims. He will not take you. He will not give you away. He opens his eyes and looks at Mr Sims. 

“Can you see _me_ , now?” he asks.

Kyle nods, and bites his lip. “Why am I still here in the room? Did I do something wrong?”

Mr Sims shakes his head. “No, you’re just not finished with your worksheet, and I wanted to help you with your maths but... I think you may be too stressed to continue.”

Kyle looks down at his desk. “I can finish it, I promise. I can finish it, I’ll be good.”

“You _are_ good, Kyle,” Mr Sims reassures, and he crouches down to Kyle’s eye level. “And no one should take or give you away. It shouldn't work like that.” Mr Sims puts a wrinkled hand over his face, and Kyle leans closer. He can make out weird marks on his face, down his neck, and there’s one there too, a thin one instead of the weird circular ones on his face. He seems real. The scars do not change as Kyle stares. He feels safe. “Does it help to know where you are? To know who you’re with, what you feel, what you perceive?”

“Perceive?” Kyle blinks, and Mr Sims smiles. 

“It means what you are aware of, realize, or understand.”

“Oh. Then yeah,” Kyle answers. “It does help.”

“Then remember. What you see, what you hear, what you taste, what you smell, what you feel. Those are your anchors - they hold you down to reality. What you know and love. It,” Mr Sims pauses, as if he realizes that Kyle isn’t following him anymore, and instead is staring at him in confusion. And Kyle _is_ staring at him in confusion. Anchors are those things used on boats, right?

Mr Sims rubs the back of his own head. “Ah, you concentrate on your five senses - see, hear, taste, smell and feel - but it’s not enough. You also think about what you know, and what you love. Your classroom, your friends, your teachers - these are things that are _real._ ”

“Focus on things that I know are real,” Kyle parrots. “I think I understand. But what do I do if they want to give me away?”

Something dark flits across Mr Sims’ face, and his jaw clenches. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them, he seems normal again. “Don’t worry, I’ll get someone to help you. Run along now. You are safe.” Mr Sims glances at his desk. “And I’ll tell Mr Barker that you need extra help with your multiplication.”

“Thank you!” Kyle says, and he runs off to the hall. The bell rings, and Kyle listens. He grabs his apple from his lunch bag in his cubby, and lets its cool weight rest in his palm. He bites into it, and the sweet and tart flavor coats his tongue. He can smell its fruity, crisp scent. 

He nods to himself, and heads outside to play.

\---

“Unbelievable,” Jon announces as he enters their house, and Martin looks up. 

“Hello to you too, Jon,” he greets cheerfully from the sofa. “I take it your day was eventful?”

“They’re _abusing_ him, Martin, they’ve practically invited the Stranger to take the child!” 

“Sorry, who?” 

“Kyle this-this child, in my class today,” Jon says, and he sits beside Martin. Martin puts a warm hand on Jon’s knee, and Jon settles. “He was terrified of me - not because of _me_ , but because he keeps imagining that there are strangers out to get him - they’ve made him believe that if he does _one thing_ wrong, they’d let them take him. He’s petrified, Martin! He could barely stand to be in the same room with me because he didn’t know me! He thought I was there to take him away because he didn’t finish his maths seatwork!”

Martin frowns. “How did - it must have not been easy to bring him out?”

“It wasn’t. It took me a few tries, a Suggestion here and there - I tried not to outright Compel him, he’s just a child, but if that could've chased away the shadow that lurked behind him in his mind, I would’ve,” Jon says. Martin pats his knee and gets up, and Jon follows him with his head. “Where…?”

“I’m just getting something, hang on,” Martin says, and he comes back after a minute with a steaming mug of tea. “Here, your timing’s always good when it comes to tea nowadays. Hold on to this.”

Jon sighs, and nods. He inhales the clean, familiar smell of tea, and exhales slowly. He sips. “I reported the incident to the counsellor,” Jon continues, calmer now. “They promised to look into his intense fear of strangers. I also told them that his quiet demeanor comes from fear, not from personality. Taught him how to anchor himself using his senses and thoughts.”

“Poor Kyle,” Martin says. “Can’t believe that there are people who’d do that to their children, scare them into obedience. It’s… well it’s _not good_.”

“It’s _evil_ ,” Jon insists. “Avatars they - we - Avatars are at least compelled by our patrons, made to be these harbingers of fear, their claws dug into us to keep us in line and you either embrace it, or you die. But even we can choose how we obey, and we can choose not to glory and relish the fear even if it tastes sweeter than ambrosia. Even _we_ have a choice.”

Jon growls, “They also had a choice. And they chose to do that to a child - depraved, unfeeling monsters of human beings!”

“I agree.” Martin puts an arm around his husband, and brings him closer. “You did good though: you helped him work through an anxiety attack, reported his circumstances to the counsellor, and gave him the tools to keep himself as firm as a child can be in reality. I think you’ve done everything you can do to help, aside from going to his parents and putting the fear of god in them.” Martin glances at Jon, who looks to be deep in thought. 

“I mean, I can do -”

“Jon!” Martin scolds, and chuckles disbelievingly. “You wouldn’t! It won’t _help_ him, it would just remove him prematurely from a thus far secure home that meets his most basic needs. They all definitely need counselling and a series of parenting seminars, maybe someone from social services can monitor them. And Kyle would need to go through lengthy therapy sessions, and it would take a while, but he _would_ get better.”

“I know, I won’t, it was just a thought,” Jon reassures, and Martin frowns at him.   
  
“Promise me, Jon,” Martin insists.

“I won’t, I promise,” Jon says softly, and Martin nods, satisfied. “I just don’t like seeing them suffer like this.”

“I know,” Martin says. “You’ve got a good heart,” he reassures. “The fact that you do your best to help them… that makes you a good man.”

Jon buries his head into Martin’s shoulder. “Thank you, Martin. But I feel like I’m not doing enough, like if this is how I’m choosing to make amends, it’s- it’s not helping, and there are people, children like Kyle…”

Martin puts a hand on Jon’s cheek, and gives him a comforting kiss on the forehead, on the nose, on the lips. “You can’t save everyone, but you _do_ help. It makes a difference. I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW/CW: Emotional abuse (child is repeatedly told that they will be given away and the guardians actually pretended to do so), child having to stay with emotional abuser due to being young and no risk of physical danger (they parent in a really questionable way because they know nothing else and need major re-adjustment), panic/anxiety attack, Fear of Strangers, Feelings of Helplessness due to inability to save/help someone completely
> 
> For those who may ask, Martin is right - Kyle is in no risk of actual, physical danger, and his family just doesn't know how to handle a child, and hence it's unlikely that he will be removed. He'll just be given therapy, maybe family counselling, and parenting seminars for the guardians. Unfortunately, this form of discipline is a thing (and can still be a thing), and it can be damaging to a child - especially with their sense of security and how they react to strangers.
> 
> [For more information on Child Abuse, please click this link.](https://www.helpguide.org/articles/abuse/child-abuse-and-neglect.htm) There are ways to ask for help at the bottom of the webpage.


	6. The Buried

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lengthy one for you guys today! Man, I need to catch up on writing. Running out of safety net chapters. Work is a killer right now - online teaching is way, WAY more tiring than physical classes and I just miss seeing and hugging actual students and - ahhh, I digress. 
> 
> Anyway, Jon is a LOT more active in this one. And we have an old statement giver come back, and JonMartin. Lengthier. It's Bring Your Husband to Work day - I mean, ah, Martin has a perfectly good explanation why he came along.
> 
> Disclaimer: I have never been to London, never been on the tube (watched a youtube video for this one) and I don't think those kinds of jackets exist for St John's Ambulance volunteers.
> 
> As usual, trigger warnings at the end of the chapter, and I hope you enjoy. Up next: The Web. Beta'd by thevorpalsword, who is a total gem.

Taylor clutches the supply teacher’s rough, scarred hand as tightly as she can. Ms Scott, one of the teaching assistants, is sick today, and Mr Sims is her special buddy for this week’s trip. She looks up at Mr Sims, who offers her a smile.

Erin from Ms Hooper’s class in Nursery told her during snack time last week that Mr Sims made the darkness in her room go away. Erin is very smart for someone in Nursery, and she’s Taylor’s friend.

So Taylor believes her, and now Taylor is hanging on to Mr Sims’ hand like her life depends on it. Which it does.

They are going into the _London Underground_. 

Her mam hasn’t even successfully got her on the train without her crying and making a fuss, and today, she is expected to endure a train ride five - five is a lot! - stations to Queen’s Park and back again.

She needs to be brave, mam told her. Mam isn’t going to be with her on the train ride. Neither is da, or auntie, or her cat Pebbles.

But she is allowed her best friend, Croco, with his green skin and clothes and big eyes and teeth, who will scare anything away. He’s tucked into the bottom of her small bag, along with the ID she’s supposed to show the police people in case she gets lost, and a bottle of water. But she won’t get lost, because mam introduced her to Mr Sims, and Mr Sims had solemnly and seriously promised that he’ll take care of Taylor and make sure that she doesn’t get ‘buried’.

At least, she thinks she heard the word buried? Isn’t that about sand and soil and dirt? How is it similar to being squished?

Taylor hates being squished and squashed and what have you. She hates squishy crowds and squashy places and small, tight spaces. She doesn’t like birthday parties where her friends gather around her when she blows the candle. She doesn’t even go through the tunnel in the playground. She doesn’t like the way it closes in and pushes at her until she can’t move, and how it makes it harder to breathe and think and speak. 

She gets scared. Like really, really scared, cry-your-eyes-out-and-vomit scared sometimes.

She’d rather scream, cry, and make a fuss and upset mam and da before she’d go down the steps at the Seven Sisters Station. The first time they did, Taylor had vomited all over the Tube floor because the train was squishy and it went dark and she couldn’t breath. Her parents had given up after a few tries, and got them a cab instead. They haven’t tried since. 

But this time, it’s a school trip because they have been talking about trans-por-tay-shon in Year 1, and the teachers want them to experience two kinds of trains - the Overground and the Underground, and they are starting on the Underground first. Mam has also said that she has to face what she is scared of. She doesn’t see why, as it’s _scary_ , wouldn’t it be best that she just avoid it and stay home? But Mr Sims read them this book last week about Franklin when Mr Williams was absent. It was about a turtle afraid of the darkness in his old shell, and other animals who had things that helped them be less scared. At the end of the story, Franklin was brave and slept in his shell with a night light - so mam thought, Croco might make her feel a lot better, like the night light in Franklin’s shell.

Croco helps a tiny bit. Mr Sims helps, too, with how tightly he clutches Taylor’s hand and how he makes sure that the squishy crowds part when they move through them. 

Mr Sims had reminded her before they left to focus on a few things instead of what’s around them. “Let’s play a quick game while we’re down there.”

Taylor nods back, and listens attentively, looking up at Mr Sims, who’s crouched down in front of her. Taylor isn’t too tall, yet. “Okay.”

“Here are the rules: First, no matter what, you’re _never_ going to let my hand go.”

Taylor nods. She never intends to, whether or not Mr Sims reminds her.  
  
“Second, whenever you feel like something’s being too squashy and nervous, you think of Croco, and your mam, da, Pebbles, and auntie, and you’re going to tell me your favorite things about them,” Mr Sims says, and he pauses as if to think. He nods to himself, and looks at Taylor with a smile. “Those are the only rules. Think you can do them?”

Taylor nods again. Think of Croco, mam, da, Pebbles, and auntie, and talk about them. Easy enough. She’s going to win this game. She’s really good at games.

The class makes their way to the steps that go down the Pidaci- Picadi- Dipaci- Pikachu Circus tube station, and with each step deeper Taylor feels like the ground was going to swallow her. Mr Sims squeezes her hand, and asks, “What color is Pebbles? Tell me about him.”

“Her, Pebbles is a girl,” Taylor corrects, and Mr Sims smiles apologetically. 

“Of course she’s a girl, my mistake,” Mr Sims says.

“Pebbles is a Sigh-yah-mees kitty. Pebbles likes it when I pet her ears, and mam says I shouldn’t touch her belly and yank her tail because she hates it and would claw me if I try - and I’m very good, so I don’t try,” Taylor explains. “She sleeps on my bed every night, and her whiskers tickle my toes in the morning when she tries to wake me up. She loves to lick my fingers. Mam says it’s to groom me - like, maybe she thinks I’m a kitty and my fingers need cleaning? I like Pebbles. I don’t have to pick her up, she just follows me around. She’s a good cat.”

“It sounds like she is,” Mr Sims agrees, and Taylor looks up. They aren’t on the steps going down anymore; they are in the brightly lit tunnels themselves. It had clean cream tiles on the floor, and Taylor remembers that she likes tiles, because trying not to step in the lines is fun. And so she tries her best not to, and once Mr Sims cottons on, he starts playing the game, too. Mr Sims speaks, “Do you know that cats lick your nails to try and sharpen them?”

“But I’m not a cat, and I don’t want my nails sharp,” Taylor protests. She looks up at Mr Sims, at his dark-tanned face and glasses that cover weird holes on his face. Erin’s right - they do seem pokable. Taylor asks, “do you have a cat, Mr Sims?”

“He’s not mine, technically, but a friend’s - The Admiral, he’s called. I’m cat-sitting him this week,” Mr Sims says. The tunnels have gone a bit wider, and there were bright orange pillars around them. Mr Sims hands her an Oyster card, which doesn’t look like an oyster, and tells her to copy the adults and tap the card to the machine. She fit under the turnstiles, technically, but Mr Williams had told them before that they were going to do what adults did to experience it. The queue is kind of long, but the crowds aren’t squishy, at least _not yet_ , and Taylor can still pretend that they’re just in a building without windows instead of underground.

Mr Williams’s voice echoes as he leads them in front of the line, and Taylor remembers hearing a story about that. Echoes usually happen in caves, right? In dark caves, in mountains, where there shouldn’t be light, places are tight and they say you wouldn’t fit and -

“So, what’s auntie’s favorite thing to cook at home?” 

“Curry! She always makes curry!” Taylor reports enthusiastically. “Have you ever had curry Mr Sims? I had curry from a takeaway and from auntie and auntie’s is better - no, the best curry ever! I don’t even eat fish and when she makes it into a curry I eat it it’s that _yummy_.”

“I like curry too, especially lamb curries,” Mr Sims says. “My partner makes curry all the time.”

“Like your circle time partner?

Mr Sims laughs. “No, like your mam and da. My partner.”

“Like your boyfriend?”

“My husband,” Mr Sims corrects. “Mr Blackwood, over there.”

Mr Blackwood reminds Taylor of Totoro, but with bright red hair instead of cute bunny ears. He just seems like someone who gives really cuddly hugs. Mr Sims must be very lucky. “The person in charge of first aid? The one that Michael’s mum says needs to come with us ‘just in case’?” She overheard her mam and Michael’s mum talk about that, with Michael’s mum looking really worried which made Taylor a bit worried too. Her mam assured her that Michael’s mum wasn’t worried about the Underground eating them or anything, just that she doesn’t want to get anyone hurt.

“He seems nice,” Taylor observes, and Mr Sims nods. They go down the escalator, which Taylor thinks is good, because she dislikes lifts. Lifts are squashy and small. She holds on to Mr Sims hand, and when they get off, they have to walk through a tunnel which looks to fit only four adults squished together, and if she gets on top of the shoulders of 5 of her classmates she’d be able to reach the top of it. It feels small and cramped, and Taylor presses against Mr Sims and feels tears prick the corners of her eyes. 

“And da’s favorite sport to watch on the telly?” Mr Sims soft voice carries down to her ears, and she shuts her eyes as she walks so she doesn’t see how tiny the tunnel is, trusting Mr Sims to lead the way properly. Mr Sims shifts his hold and moves his hand to grasp her wrist. 

“Football - he says he supports Arsenal, and he has one of their uniforms in his wardrobe. His friends come over all the time to watch the telly with him. Football seems exciting the way they watch it, but I never really understood why,” Taylor explains. “But kicking balls are fun, so maybe that’s why.”

“Do you know that in other countries, football is called soccer?” Mr Sims says, and Taylor gasps. She opens her eyes, and looks up. 

“Why?”

Mr Sims knots his forehead, as if to think deeply, and lets out a laugh. “You know what Taylor? I don’t know!” This seems to amuse him very much, and Taylor looks at him in confusion. She doesn’t know what’s so funny, but between Mr Sims laughing at an unfunny joke and her thinking about soccer she realises too late that they are finally at the platform. 

Mr Williams is reminding them of what he told them in school - that they were to get on the Bakerloo line, and they’d ride it for five stations and get off, go around to the other side, then go back to Picasso Circus Station, then go back to school to be picked up by their parents. He also reminds them to mind the gap between the platform and the train (and they had practiced jumping and stepping over it during a game in class). They wait for the blue, red, and white train, and they split up in groups of 6 and line up in different queues to enter. Mr Sims still has Taylor’s hand, but now he is also minding 5 of her other classmates, and Taylor makes sure that she watches out for them, as well. Mr Blackwood, she notices, went with Michael’s group, which makes sense, since Michael is a little clumsy and may need extra help (maybe that’s why his mum was worried, Taylor thinks).

Wind Taylor doesn’t expect blows into her face as the train arrives, and it looks cramped and small and Taylor doesn’t know how they will fit inside. She hesitates, but Mr Sims squeezes her hand again reassuringly, and asks her about whether she and her mam do anything special together. “My mam loves putting puzzles together - she has these large once with _so many pieces_ and a special room in the house I’m not allowed to enter because it might scatter the puzzle. But she buys me nice ones with rainbows and puppies that we do together.”

They go inside, and Taylor presses against Mr Sims. The train doors shut, and it pulls away heading towards first station, and everything is fine. It’s like being in a car, but instead you face other people like on a weird bus, and you don’t travel on the road, and there’s a weird sound, but it isn’t as scary as Taylor thought it would be. Actually, there isn’t even a lot of people on right now, not like Taylor had experienced before.

It is, Taylor decides, not as bad as she remembers. She exhales and relaxes, and her grip loosens from Mr Sims hand a little as the train rolls to a stop at the next station.

That is when everything goes bad.

People start piling in. A lot of them. More than Taylor thought would fit, and they start pushing to get everyone in. Someone with a large backpack stands in front of Taylor, and the train shakes a little and the person staggers backwards into Taylor’s face. 

It gets very, very squishy and too much and Taylor realises that she can’t find Mr Sims anymore, and her bag is gone, and she can’t breathe. There are more people coming in, somehow, then when it stops and the train starts to move, the seat behind her presses into her back, and it starts to move forward, and Taylor’s face gets squashed into the bag in front of her.

Taylor shrieks as loud as she can, and she pushes against the bag and punches it as hard as she can. Her hands slips against it, and is caught by someone whose palm feels rough - Mr Sims!

Mr Sims sounds muffled, and Taylor has to listen very very hard in order to hear him. “Taylor, Taylor focus - I know it’s hard, but tell me what color Croco is. What is Croco?”

“Croco is a crocodile mam and da bought for me when we went to Australia Zoo,” Taylor says. Her eyes tear up when she realises she can’t feel her bag on her shoulders, and wonders where Croco is and her water bottle and her ID. “He’s wearing brown zookeeper clothes and he smiles at me and makes sure I don’t get into trouble and sleep well and where’s Croco, Mr Sims, I’m scared and I want Croco!”

“I know you’re scared Taylor, I know - I’m trying to find him as well, I need you to breathe. Inhale, exhale. _Breathe_ . I’ll get Croco, I promise,” Mr Sims sounds closer, and he sounds less like there’s cotton in her ears and more like he’s behind her. The bag in front of her has moved a little farther away and she pushes against it to make it go farther. “Ah, ah! Here, here he is, here’s Croco. Hang on to Croco, Taylor and hang on to _me_ , okay?”

“But there’s too many people and the walls move and -”  
  
“I know, but we’ll get out of here, I promise. Martin? Martin!” Mr Sims fades out again, but Taylor can still feel his hand in hers, and she clutches Croco to her chest and closes her eyes and just decides to stop breathing until she can feel the air again, and he trusts that Mr Sims will help her. He promised.

The next time Taylor opens her eyes she is outside of the train, sitting on a bench. Mr Blackwood is in front of her, concerned, and he seems to just be watching her as she blinks back. She feels dirty, like there was literally dirt and soil all over her face and clothes and hair, and she shrugs and brushes it off (even if there wasn’t anything there). She is still holding Mr Sims’ hand, but he sits silently beside her, as if just waiting for her to be ready. When she asks “what happened?”, Mr Williams suddenly appears into view and tearfully gives her a hug, which Taylor returns tightly. Mr Williams lets go almost immediately after she gave the hug back.

“I’m all right, Mr Sims got me out,” Taylor says. “I’m not sure - the train wasn’t - what happened?”

“You had a meltdown, we think,” Mr Williams explains. “Which is normal if you start feeling things are too much and you get scared. You were doing fine before we got to the first station, and you accidentally let go of Mr Sims’ hand as far as we can tell, and that’s when it happened.”

“There were too many people,” Taylor answers, and Mr Williams glances at Mr Sims. Mr Sims shakes his head, and Mr Williams sighs and nods. 

“I’m sure it felt that way. Don’t worry, we’ve decided to cut the trip short and-”

“But Mr Williams, what are we going to ride back?”

“I’ve called the school and we’ve arranged a ride,” Mr Williams tells her. “We don’t have to get back on a train until you’re ready again.”  
  
Taylor nods solemnly. “I thought I was ready, too.” 

“And you were, until you weren’t,” Mr Williams says. “And that’s okay. You can be ready again next time and we’ll try then.”

“Can I bring Croco next time? He helps. He helps a lot,” Taylor says. “Croco protects me.”

“Yes,” Mr Williams says, and Taylor isn’t sure why his eyes look red and teary-eyed. “Yes you can definitely bring Croco next time.”

\---

The school day has ended, and Jon is sat on one of the couches in the parent waiting area when Martin comes out from the headmaster’s office. He slips his green St. John's Ambulance volunteer jacket back on, and sits down beside Jon. They stay silent for a while, until Jon speaks up.

“Do you remember Karolina Górka?”

Martin thinks, and shakes his head. “Remind me?”

“She gave us a statement about the London Underground,” Jon says. “She is also Taylor’s mother.”

“Taylor’s mother?” Martin echoes, eyes wide. Jon nods, and Martin blinks. “Of course she is.”

“She seems inexplicably linked to the Buried, somehow. She left the area dusty after she had arrived the last time I met her, and I thought it was odd but… I had other problems,” Jon pauses. He remembers Leitner briefly, and the tunnels, and Martin puts a comforting hand on his. Jon continues, “It appeared to have stayed with her until she had Taylor.”

Martin lets out a huff, and a quiet, “well shite.”

“Yes, She remembered me from The Institute, and… beyond that. Ms Gorka told me that I knew her, ah, _background_ , and told me that Taylor has claustrophobia but they never understood why, until she saw me again. It dawned on her then, but she’d decided already that a school trip might be away for Taylor to see that there was nothing to be afraid of. She instead made sure that Taylor hung on to me the entire time.

“And unfortunately, she was wrong.” Jon stands up, and his hands twitch a little. He wishes for a cigarette, but he glances at Martin who immediately takes his hand. “Are you ready to go home?”

“Yeah, I am,” Martin says. “I don’t feel like taking the tube home today. Bus station is a bit of a walk though, is that okay?”

Jon smiles gratefully. Martin knows what he needs before he can even ask. “Of course.”

They make their way out of the school, and as they walk hand in hand, Martin pipes up, “so how did the talk with Ms Gorka go, after? I was giving my version of the events to the headmaster for the incident report, and last I saw before I entered his office was you talking to the parent again.”

“Yes. She confided to me then that she was terrified of me and saw me in her dreams, and figured that if I was _that_ terrifying, that maybe the Buried will be scared of me as well,” Jon can feel Martin rub his hand gratefully, and Jon squeezes back gently. “Before the trip, when she entrusted her child to me, her exact words were: _Whatever it is down there, scare it away from her_ ,” Jon laughs mirthlessly. “I didn’t quite know what to say to her request, just told her I won’t let Taylor be buried, and she nodded back, and that was that.

“When you saw me then, she thanked me. _Actually thanked me_ , Martin, for ‘pulling her child out’, and she said that she told Mr Williams that they’ll see a counsellor for her fears and that he shouldn’t worry, his team did the best they could. She then told me that this job suits me, and left.”

Martin gave out an “ah”, and then says, “i-if you don’t mind me asking, Jon, what exactly _happened_ in there? All we could see from the outside was Taylor panicking and shrieking, and when I went near her she started hitting me and pushing me. Her eyes were out of focus- and yours were, too, and you clutched her so tightly I was scared for a bit that you’d cut circulation from her fingers. But she held onto you just as tight, and then you gave her the crocodile toy, and she visibly started to calm down, but her breathing suddenly slowed; we feared the worst. Then you called me, and I carried her out of the train when we got to the next station.”

Jon stopped. “This will - I think I need to sit down for this,” he says, and Martin gestures at the small park across the road. It’s in the opposite direction from the turning but Jon nods, and they make their way to one of the benches.

Jon starts. “My way of anchoring her worked, at first. Whenever she felt like it was too much, we started talking about things that mattered to her - her cat, auntie, da, and mam. I knew I was holding off a meltdown, I can tell, but for the most part she did just fine handling everything. She was very brave.

"But when we entered the tube, something changed. 

“I had the other children sit beside us, and for a moment, I had to let go of Taylor’s hand. The air around her started to smell cloying, like damp Earth after the rain, and everything felt hazy, like my senses were drowning in liquid. I could see her start to panic when the doors opened, like she saw something that I couldn’t, and so I took her hand, and I Saw it, Martin.

“The train was suddenly _packed,_ people just kept coming in and filled the train with piles of bodies that smelled musty like a coffin dug from the ground _._ There was someone pressing against her, and it was, well it was _odd_ . I could tell there was nothing there, but I could See what she was seeing and experiencing at the same time. She was drowning in a sea of people and the walls of the train pressed in on her, and I knew, I remembered, that there should be an _anchor_ , a physical one, and I dug through her bag and found her toy: Croco. Her best friend, the one she sleeps with every night and clutches close when she needs to feel safe. She closed her eyes and I thought for _sure she was -_ ” Jon swallows, and Martin draws him in. He gives Jon a kiss on the forehead. 

“I called you over, as you know, and I could hear the rolling of the recorder and a tinny sound of a tape playing,” Jon blinks, and turns to his husband. “Were you - was that a statement, Martin? Wherever did you get a statement?”

“I.. i-it’s part of our emergency stash. I found some before… before everything went down, and I kept them safe and took them home. Afterwards. For emergencies. Because I didn’t know what you needed after _everything_ that happened, Jon, and for a while you weren’t even _okay_ , so I thought I needed to secure something, just in case…”

Jon straightens, as if he has realised something, and he gently says, “it was you, wasn’t it Martin. You were the one who placed the tapes around the Coffin when I rescued Daisy. You were the one who pulled me back.”

“I didn’t even know that it would work or how I knew it would but it _did_ and I’m not sorry, Jon,” Martin says defensively. “I just knew I had to- mmmfff!”  
  
He doesn’t even get to finish. Jon pounces on him with a kiss, and climbs into his lap and they sit there, snogging like a couple of teenagers in a public park. Jon finally pulls back to catch his breath, and Martin suggests that they should probably stop. “Not because I’m not enjoying this, Jon, I just don’t want to get arrested for public indecency.”

“Public displays of affection are not against the law.”

“No it isn’t, but we are still a gay mixed-race couple and…”  
  
“Point taken,” Jon says wryly, and climbs off Martin’s lap. “I just wanted to thank you. F-for that. For getting me out.”

“I got that,” Martin says. “You’re welcome.” Jon offers a shy smile, and Martin returns it with a wider, satisfied one. 

Jon clears his throat. “So, ah, to continue. I think… honestly I think I got out because of _you_ , Martin, when you started speaking in soft tones to the child and held our hands. The statement might not have even been necessary,” he says, but takes one look at Martin’s face and Jon quickly backpedals. “I know, I know, better safe than sorry.

“After that, you carried her out onto a bench upstairs and got her settled down and when she was back, you know what happened next. We got back to school, talked to the children about what happened under the supervision of the school counsellor, filed our reports, and let everyone home.” 

“Wow.”

“Wow?”

“Yeah, wow,” Martin says. “I’ve never seen you in action before, with the kiddies, and that was _amazing_. Wow, Mr Blackwood-Sims, wow.”

“I’m sure you could have done the same thing -”

“No, I couldn’t have, I wouldn’t have been able to See reality versus what Taylor was experiencing. I don’t even think anyone would have seen what Taylor was experiencing. Towards the end of that, she appeared to be getting into a weird catatonic state, Jon, and I truly was worried, but you brought her out,” Martin says. “So, wow!”

“I-I suppose so. Let’s call it a team effort? You were the one who made sure her vitals were okay.”

“Fine,” Martin concedes. “Team effort, led by Jon. Hooray! Big damn heroes, sir.”

“Aren’t we just,” Jon responds, and Martin chuckles at the deliberate misquote.

“I love you,” Martin says. “I love you so much, Jon.”

“I love you too,” Jon answers. “So much.”

They get up, and continue on their journey home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Claustrophobia, Crowds, meltdown/panic, The Buried and all it entails, allusions to racism and homophobia
> 
> Also yes, that was a Firefly reference, because... I like it. Hahaha!


	7. The Web

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know it's the Web and you probably expect something more terrifying for Jon (and I was originally going to write that, and I still will, maybe as a bonus chapter) but I thought this one is a little more... well let's just say that this is Teacher!Jaeh projecting on Jon re. similar incidents that made a year of teaching lowkey hellish. 
> 
> Also sorry that it took so long - I've now ran out of safety chapters and have to write again, and work is... work is tough right now, and thus takes all of my spoons and none are left for writing :( HOWEVER, weekend's coming in, hopefully my brain is still up for some thinking!
> 
> CWs at the end, as per usual. Thanks to thevorpalsword for the beta work as always!

This was the longest Jon has been with a specific class. Miss Hussain, their teacher, (no relation to Basira) was out sick with chickenpox, and thus for two weeks, he’s taking care of these Year 5 students and getting to know them beyond what The Eye would occasionally reveal.

He Knows that Aisha has dreams of being chased by something she can’t see because she sneaks downstairs past bedtime when her parents watch horror movies before bed, and now, he also knows that Aisha’s favorite snack food are celery sticks with peanut butter. He Knows Ji-Won’s afraid of spiders because he once saw a spider egg sac hatch in his shoe, and now, he also knows that Ji-Won also hates chocolate because “Reasons, Mr S!”

Also he is now ‘Mr S’, and Jon  _ tolerates  _ the needless shortcut for the shorter last name he uses as a teacher. 

It’s now lunch on his last day, and Jon watches, and he Watches. He feels the need to be alert today, but he isn't entirely what is prickling his senses. 

“I swear, I didn’t say that!”   


“Jill  _ said _ -”

“Just because Jill said so doesn’t mean it’s true!”

He looks behind him. Just a little beyond the benches are a group of girls stage-whispering loudly amongst themselves. It seems like they were having a discussion of sorts, and Jon, well, it's part of his job to watch the kids, right? 

He listens closely. 

"But she told me that you said you didn't like the birthday gift I gave you. That you found it _cheap_ _and ugly_. I picked that out carefully for you, Ava! That's unfair." 

Ava shakes her head vehemently. "I loved your gift, Sabina, I promise! I've put it on my pencil case at home because it's so special and I didn't want to lose it at school." 

Jon turns away. It sounds like the two girls are figuring out whatever that was, and he doesn’t need to-

"You told Jill that my video was stupid!"

"No I didn't!"

Another one. By the playground this time; one child sits in the swing, while the other stands in front of her, arms crossed.

"She showed me the group chat, Lizzie! You said that you secretly thought my Vlog was stupid and silly in a bad way. You even put in a vomit emoji!"

"I swear Pixie, I didn't do anything like that. I even liked your video on Tiktok!"

Jon frowns. He has an idea of what was happening, but there was another-

"You promised me you'll come to my party, Kayla, and now you're saying no?"

"But Hannah, Jill said that she'd heard that you're cancelling because your parents are getting divorced, so I promised her that I’d come over to her house, instead."

"What? Where did you hear that?! My parents are  _ not _ divorcing, Kayla!"

There was a name in common, and he Knows her. Jill Turner, 9 years old, Year Five student. Parents are currently divorcing which leaves her alone, afraid, insecure, and craving for attention. Lives with the parent whom she believes is stricter and actively limits her social interactions and extracurricular activities so she can “focus on her academics” who believes that Jill will be awarded an Oxford or Cambridge scholarship someday. All she wants at the moment is to play a sport, go to sleepovers, and join a school club  _ she’s  _ chosen instead of her mum.

Jon can feel her insecurities and fears seep under his skin, and the Eye relishes it as he Watches. In the distance, he can see Jill rub at the goosebumps on her arm. Her anxieties bubble out as lies told to friends in order to keep them within her grasp and control. Her angst is not within what she can actually manage, and The Eye, hungry, relishes in what it has found, even if Jon can tell her fear rightly belongs to the Web. 

He looks around. No spiders, no cobwebs, no puppetry. Just a child lying.

Jon is not sure what he found more terrifying between those things.

Jon surfaces from the onslaught of information that crashes over him quickly like ocean surf. He knows he can do something about this, stop the manipulation somehow, perhaps bring it to the child’s attention? Maybe. It would be easier if he  _ actually  _ was this student’s teacher. Maybe he can set up a program to address real friendship in the classroom or… he should tell Jill’s teacher, but Jon suspects she hasn’t caught on to the child’s controlling influence yet.

Jon only Saw because of what he is, and that makes him feel like it’s his responsibility, somehow, to do something about it.

He approaches her as she finishes her turn on the skipping rope. “Ms Turner, I need to speak with you for a moment,” Jon says, and the girl smiles, teeth brilliant, perfect, and jagged when the Watcher looks.

“Yes, Mr Sims?” 

“I need to talk to you about your friends,” Jon says, and he pats a space on the bench. Jill glances at whomever she played with, who gave her a quick smile and left. Jill sits beside Jon.

“What about them, Mr Sims?” 

Jon isn’t one to harshly criticize a child, not one to judge those who are still growing into who they will be, but there is something about this one. Something rotten, foul, that makes him feel like he was once again 13 years old with a face full of acne and physique thin as a beanpole. He doesn’t need The Eye to tell him about this child.

This girl, Jon decides, is a brat. A brat who is very good at hiding who she is.

But, Jon reminds himself, brat she may be, she’s still a child and Jon, maybe Jon can make her  _ see _ .

“They will be your friends even if they have other things going on too, you know that, right? That you’re not the only one they’re obligated to have fun with?”

“Of course,” Jill responds in her lilting, innocent tone. “They’re my friends no matter what, right, Mr Sims?”

“Yes,” Jon answers. “You do  _ not  _ have to make up stories about them just so that they’d stay friends and spend time with you. If they’re really your friends they’d like you for who you are, even if the only time you get to spend with them is during school hours.”

“I’ve never done such a thing, Mr Sims! Who told you that I did? That I make up stories?” She denies with such conviction that if Jon didn’t  _ Know _ , didn’t hear, he might have believed her.

“Jill-”

“I can’t believe anyone would say that about me,” Jill says, her eyes slowly start to tear up. Jon stands quickly, not exactly knowing what to do. 

He knows those tears were fake. He doesn’t know how to console someone who is crying  _ fake tears _ , he can barely console someone crying real ones. 

“Look, just… just try it. Be kind. If they’re your friends, they’ll be there for you no matter what. Just because you can’t be with them all the time doesn’t mean that they aren’t friends with you anymore,” Jon says, and Jill nods.

“I’m sorry Mr Sims, I promise it won’t happen again, you will never hear about me telling  _ lies _ ever again,” Jill says, and she wipes her tears with the back of her hand. “Never again.”

Jon nods, a little unsure, and Jill runs off to enjoy the last few minutes before the bell rings. Jon stands and continues his watch as he realises what the girl has just told her.

_ You will never hear about me telling lies ever again _ .

That is not an apology. That is a promise that none of her friends will tattle on her again.

Jon swears under his breath. He may have, accidentally, made it worse for whoever she’s chosen to be part of her clique. There is nothing to be done, now. It is his last day, and all he can do is to let this go.

He could, if he wishes, Compel her to apologize. 

He snickers to himself. Compelling a child. That’s dark, even for him, even for the Eye. 

“Mr Sims?” 

Jon turns. A student - Anna, he remembers, stands there, and John nods at her in acknowledgment. “Yes, Ms Petrova?”   


“I need to talk to you about a dilemma, about one of my friends?” She looks around. “But maybe somewhere that… my friend cannot see us.”

“I don’t think Jill can see us, Anna,” Jon reassures. Anna, however, does not look reassured, but instead looks hesitant.

“I didn’t say anything about Jill,” Anna says. “Um, it’s not Jill, I promise.”

Jon frowns. “Don’t worry, she won’t know anything. I can keep a secret,” Jon winks, and Anna manages a laugh. Jon knows how ridiculous he looks. He did it on purpose.

“I… yes,” Anna says. “Mr Sims, what should I do if one of my best friends keeps on making up stories about me? She’s getting my other friends mad at me and... I don’t like it. She says that she didn’t say it but Nikki says that Jill said it and I know Nikki won’t lie to me and… I’m just really confused.”

Jon frowns, and considers his answer carefully. 

The best thing to tell Anna is to just keep away from Jill and enjoy her other friends. Right? Is it?

What exactly is he  _ meant to say _ ?

He sighs. Yes, it is the best thing he is meant to say. “Anna, real friends don’t pull others down,” Jon begins, and he sits so he will be at Anna’s eye level. “They will always speak the truth and have your back. If this “best friend” is spreading lies about a person to gain attention or to be liked by others, then being friends with her won’t be good for you. ”

“But Jill gets lonely.”

“I know, but being around her makes  _ you _ unhappy,” Jon points out. “And leaves you feeling lonely, even if you have your own friends. You’re really kind to still want to hang out with her, but we also don’t want you to end up copying her just to keep the friends you both have. It’s unfair to everyone involved.”

Anna frowns at this. She gives him a sharp nod and a small smile, seemingly satisfied with the answer she received. “Thank you, Mr Sims.” She leaves, and the bell rings soon after. 

Jon sighs. There are only a few hours left in the day, and this interaction’s already left him feeling exhausted.

\---

“Jon? Are you feeling okay?” Martin says, standing over his husband who is currently curled up on the sofa, head buried into a cushion. 

“Children are exhausting,” he announces, and Martin raises an eyebrow.

“I have never heard that from you before,” Martin points out, and Jon sighs. 

Martin isn’t being sarcastic. He  _ literally  _ has never heard it from Jon before. 

“How bad was it?”

Jon pops up, and runs his hands through his hair. “I dislike passing judgment on children, Martin, but this one was a downright  _ brat _ . She twists her words and lies in order to maintain control over her friends. She’s  _ nine _ , Martin. A nine year old!”

Martin sighs. He plops down beside Jon, who turns to face his husband. Martin puts his hand on Jon’s knee in an attempt to comfort, and Jon visibly soaks it up, his shoulders relaxing. “She must have learnt it from her parents.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. They usually do,” Martin says, and Jon grits his teeth.

“It was appalling. Do you know how she apologised for her behavior? She outrightly promised she won’t get  _ caught  _ ever again. If I didn’t know any better I would have thought she was in the running to serve The Web,” Jon says. “Oh how  _ easy _ it would have bene to just Compel her to tell all her friends why she was such a horrible child!”

Martin frowns in disbelief, but before he could protest, Jon continues. “Of course I did no such thing, but I was  _ definitely _ tempted. Anything to just stop herself from hurting others and herself.”

“She would learn eventually, we hope,” Martin says instead. “How were her friends doing? Surely it’s hard on them too - they’re outright  _ bullied _ by this child unknowingly.”

“I know! All I could do was warn them away by telling them ‘that’s not how real friendship works’ like a fortune cookie and leave a note for their class teacher on the students’ behavior,” Jon says. “I wish I could have done better. It was… it wasn’t one of my best attempts.”

“But you  _ have  _ helped them, Jon,” Martin reassures. “As far as I can tell from your story you did what you can as a supply teacher, and you were even able to give proper advice to the one who sought it out and wanted to listen. And you did try with the other child as well, tried to talk to her. You did your best.”

“But it wasn’t  _ enough _ , Martin,” Jon insists. “I can feel the anxiety and fear seeping from her friends’ confusion, how much they hated the lying and deception she’s trapped her friends in and it’s all I can do not to let the Eye bask in what it observes.”

Martin smiles, and takes Jon in, enveloping him with a hug. “You did fine, love. I promise. They will grow out of it. They’re nine.” Jon attempts to speak, but Martin interrupts, “and if they don’t, they will suffer the consequences.” Jon nods into Martin’s shoulder in defeat, and Martin kisses him on the head.

Martin gets up, and Jon stays on the sofa, his legs pulled up to his chin. Martin runs his fingers through Jon’s hair. 

“Martin?”

“Yes, Jon?”   


“Could you pass me the laptop, please?”

Martin frowns, then realizes what Jon wants to do. He gingerly hands it over, and Jon unfolds himself. The teacher heads to the dining table, and sets up the laptop. Martin looks over his shoulder. Jon already has Google Scholar up and running. 

_ Children and lying _ can be found in the search field, and Jon quickly amasses tabs filled with journal articles. “I’ll get you some tea, and the other laptop. Maybe there’s a correlation between lying and divorces, or maybe lying and anxiety,” Martin says. 

Jon gives him a tight nod, and he exhales, running a hand through his salt and pepper hair. Martin puts a hand on Jon’s shoulder, and Jon takes it. “Martin?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you,” Jon says. “For knowing just what I need.”

Martin smiles. “Anytime, Jon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Bullying, emotional manipulation (from a child), lying
> 
> Next bit would be The Hunt, I reckon. Please forgive me if this goes beyond the supposed 2 weeks again - hopefully I get into the zone better at work so I can churn out work and fandom content properly again like usual. Hope y'all stay safe, and enjoy the new TMA eps!!! (I've caught up now, for the most part. I'm on 172, and skipped ahead to listen to 177 and 178, and I'll just double back to 173-176 when I have the time, lol) 
> 
> Find me at ineffablynoice on tumblr!


	8. The Hunt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DID IT! I finished THE HUNT! YEEESSSSS Thank you everyone for your patience. I hope The End won't take as long, but you never know D:
> 
> We have Jon and Daisy bonding because whatever that episode in Season 5 was it doesn't exist. IT DOESN'T.
> 
> Betad by the wonderful thevorpalsword. Heed warnings in the End Chapter notes!

The hallways were bright, and James was quiet as he approached his target. James slipped behind a wall, and when he peeked around the corner, someone was creeping alongside, trying to catch him, and-

“Saw you first!” James exclaims, and Alan laughs.

“You got lucky!”

“Did not! I have skills,” James says with a grin. “I found the others too, so that just proves it.”

Alan rolls his eyes. “One more round before recess ends?”

“You’re on.” The two boys run off, gathering the rest of their classmates, and play until the bell rings.

This is their recess tradition, some form of chasing game, tag, hide-and-seek, cops and robbers - their legs running through the grass and the playground, finding interesting places to hide or jump off from, in order to catch their friends unaware, and snare them in their trap.

He watched it from a Discovery Channel show once. His mum had preferred he watch those, she’d said something about violent tv shows, but you don’t have to look far to find graphic bloodshed.

Sometimes all you need to watch is a shark eating a seal, or a pack of lionesses attacking a gnu, who fights back and just ploughs through the big cat, the predator taken over by the prey.

James doesn’t quite like it when that happens. It feels weird when prey triumphs over predators. That’s not how the food web works, his science teacher said, right? The prey gets eaten by the predators, and the human is the biggest predator. Maybe someday his dad can take him out to grandfather’s and he can learn how to hunt for deer or pheasant. His grandfather had let him try it one summer, just shooting out some targets he’d set out in the field, and James _adored_ it. He misses it, too, and he scratches the itch by using the nerf guns his dad had bought for him and practice target shooting in his house or playing with some friends in the park.

Games like tag and hide-and-seek, he finds, also scratch the itch to give chase and to hunt. 

It’s all in good fun, of course. His dad believes that the exercise is good for him, and his mum just tells him that boys will be boys.

Sometimes he imagines that he’s a predator, and he pounces on his giggling friends who enjoy the make-believe. 

Then one day, the Year 4s asks if they can join. 

James’s group taunts them, telling them that this is a big-kid game, and are they _sure_ they want to join, and they’re not going to be responsible if they start crying because they get hurt. 

The Year 4s are adamant.

“It’s just hide-and-go-seek, how hurt are we going to get?”

A slow smile forms on James’ face, and one of the Year 4 students shifts uneasily. “I’m out,” she blurts, and James shrugs. The rest of the students pay her no mind, and look excited to play.

“So, I’m it?” James volunteers. “Counting up to a hundred.”

The whole lot of them scatters, and James counts steadily under his breath.

_1, 2, 3, 4…_

There’s an odd sensation thrumming from the ground through the soles of his feet, climbing up. It tingles like electricity, and James feels… he wants to say _powerful_ , but that doesn’t sound… right.

_11, 12, 13, 14…_

Each number drips from his mouth in suspense; he can taste his excitement in the heat of the moment. 

_22, 23, 24, 25…_

Saliva pools in the corners of his mouth. He wipes it with his sleeve and continues counting.

_46, 47..._

He looks up. There is fast, rhythmic thumping near one of the trees behind him, and then he realises that he was hearing someone’s heart beating like hooves of antelope in the savannah, just like on the telly.

_76, 77, 78…_

James crouches, as low as he can. It’s good he’s wearing sneakers, the good ones that don’t squeak on floors or crunch too much in the grass. 

**_100._ **

James turns. His ears twitch towards scuffling noises, but he can tell that it was the Year 6s playing footy in the distance. There’s a shuffle behind him, and he whipped his head around, and there! An ankle fast disappearing behind one of the pillars where he could still hear _thumpthump thumpthump thumpthump_ loud and strong.

He creeps forward, on all fours now. His back is hunched over, knees bent to accommodate the length of his legs, arms stretched forward to reach the ground. It feels comfortable, natural even, and he finds himself even stealthier this way. He can hear its breathing now, faster, faster. It knows.

The prey always knows. 

James pounces, but the prey is able to slip away. It screams, shrieks as it speeds away. He can taste the fear in its wake, sweet and sticky on the tongue. He imagines this is how blood would taste; predators seem to like it, right?

He figures he’d like it, too. 

James runs after it. The chase lights up his bones, lending him the energy he needs.

His ears pick something up at the last minute, and he pivots suddenly. His prey has stopped in the distance, but James doesn’t care. There is something out there, a better chase, a better takedown. It hides well, camouflaged behind the bleachers in its grey sweatshirt and black pants, and it runs away with glee. 

It used to be a predator, James realises. Now it’s his quarry, and he will take it down. 

It screams happily as it runs away. It doesn’t understand, not yet. It thinks it's still part of a game.

It is, but not _that_ kind of game.

He runs after it, and it screams. And screams. And screams. It turns around to look at James, and he watches the exact moment it recognises the real danger it’s in. The shrieks of excitement change into screeches of horror, and James lets out a cross between a howl and a growl, his throat straining as he does so. His vocal chords aren’t built for such powerful noises, but they will get used to it, James knows.

His victim tries to go faster, but it fails. It trips on its own shoe, and quickly scrabbles on its hands and knees. It turns around to face James, and starts to back away, scooting its butt on the grass as it attempts to hurry backwards. There’s no use. James has the advantage. He’s fast, he’s ready, and his muscles sing in glee as he uses them the way they were intended.

This is James’ chance. He jumps.

And lands on the grass. He rolls away, and growls. A man has yanked his prey away, and the prey runs, crying. The man calls after it, telling it to hide. No matter. James’ll find it again. It only prolongs the fun.

“ _Stop_.”

James finds himself frozen in place, and he howls in alarm. This has never happened before. But he knows the circle of life, and he knows that it can turn as quickly. If he was a predator before, he isn’t, now. 

“James,” The man says quietly, and James snaps his eyes up at the man’s face. He doesn’t look like a predator. He’s taller than James right now, but James knows that in a few years he’ll overtake this man. He looks thin, scars scattered on his skin everywhere James can see. This man is prey. Was prey?

James can see the thin white scar on the man’s neck, and knows something bigger, scarier than James did it. How did this man get away? He _looks_ like prey. He feels like prey!

But he made James stop. He isn’t prey. Not anymore.

“Come back, James,” the man says. There’s something about the man’s eyes that draws James in. “He doesn’t belong to _you_. Let him go. James. Come back.”

James blinks. He doesn’t understand. Doesn’t belong to what? Who is this man talking to?

“ _Stand up. Look at me, and come back._ ”

James stands up. He grimaces as he does so, muscles protesting. “James?” The man asks again. 

James blinks. “Mr Sims?” James replies. "What's- wasn't I…?"

James _remembers_ , and he gasps. "What was _that_ ?" He draws into himself, and drops to sit on the grass, hugging his knees. James sobs, and hugs his teacher. Mr Sims rubs his back in slow, comforting circles, as he murmurs something calming that James can't understand. "I-I didn't like it. _No_ ," he corrects himself, "I liked it, but my friends, they were scared, and it was _scary_ , and I don't understand what just happened." He whispers, his voice shaking. "I don't want it to happen again." 

Mr Sims crouches down, eyes filled with worry. "I know," his teacher offers. There is something in the adult’s voice that sends away the electricity that once felt so right in his body but now stabs in sharp points along his joints. James whimpers as it leaves. It feels like his best friend is going far away and not coming back. It feels like someone has pulled out a splinter from his finger. It feels like someone's spreading aloe all over his sunburn. 

"I think you should have to talk with the counsellor, and maybe after that, you can apologise to Alan and to the Year 4s?"

James nods without protest. He wants to talk to someone, _anyone,_ and the counsellor sounds like a good choice. Maybe she can also help him say sorry to his friends, and maybe she can help him understand what that was. Mr Sims walks with him to the counsellor’s office, and James breathes slowly, steadily, and he can feel Mr Sims breathing with him as he goes through mindfulness exercises that he has been taught to practice.

They are outside the office door, and Mr Sims crouches in front of him. “If you feel like it will happen again, stay calm. Breathe. Be mindful of how it feels, then firmly _tell it to go away_. And I promise it will leave,” Mr Sims says, and he frowns a little. “But it will come back. And when it does, make it go away again. And hopefully, someday, it goes away for good, but in the meantime, you’ll talk about it with the counsellor, okay?”

James nods. He doesn’t fully understand, but he hears Mr Sims loud and clear. James has the power to make it go away, and he hopes that someday, it never comes back. 

\---

Jon rarely sees Daisy without Basira. However, her partner is on a job, looking for some dickhead trying to cheat on his wife, and Daisy… well, she’ll hate it if she hears the term ‘babysitter’, but that is exactly why Jon is here with her, in their flat. 

"There is no need for you to be here, Jon," Daisy protests.

"It's fine, Daisy," Jon says, dropping his bag on the coffee table and sitting on the other end of the couch where Daisy is. "Martin is away at a conference, and I appreciate the company."

"You should get a cat, or maybe a child, Sims," Daisy says so flatly that Jon cannot tell if she was joking or not. "Would do you good. Occupy you when Martin's away."

Jon splutters. "A child is _not_ a _pet_ -"

Daisy lets out a small chuckle, and Jon follows suit. He then asks, "How did work go?"

"Boring," Daisy responds. "Basira still doesn't trust me with jobs that involve watching and waiting. Says it's too close to Hunting. So I'm stuck with boring research and calling up our long lists of contacts, and being back up, _just in case_. Of course, there’s never really a need for back up." Daisy sighs. "I do understand, of course, she's just… trying to make sure it doesn't happen again. And I appreciate it. Just wish it wasn't so damn boring." 

Jon remains silent, and when he does speak, guilt suffuses his words. "I wish it had gone differently for you, better I mean. That the end of, well, when it all ended, that It went away, too."

"Still have your Eye powers, don't you?"

"Yes but-" 

"Not much different, really," Daisy says. "After _you and Martin_ ended it," she reminds softly but firmly, her way of comfort, "it's mostly quieted down. Dampened, somehow, like my ears have been stuffed with cotton and the need to catch prey has been muffled. I find that I don't need to do so, as much, and aiding someone in order to get prey, like I’m part of a _pack_ , seems to satisfy It enough." She grimaces. "For now, at least. Still have heightened senses, though, which helps plenty."

"Here's hoping it's permanent, too," Jon agrees. "My, ah, light snacks, o-of the fear of being watched and observed, seems to actually be _positive_ in my line of work, somehow, and it appeases The Beholding. They have mostly been diminished, after… After, but they're still…"

"Trying to come back, yes," Daisy finishes in agreement. "Some of the cases we’ve had to turn in to the police proves that." 

Jon grimaces. "I'd hoped it'll all just be _gone_."

"Fear doesn't ever go away, Jon," Daisy says. "But we can definitely make sure we don't succumb to it, to _any_ of it." 

Jon hums, then frowns. "I had a run-in with the Hunt, today."

Daisy straightens at this. "A new one? Already?"

"It tried. Didn't let it," Jon said. His voice lowered into a semblance of a growl. "A child, Daisy. It tried to take a _child_."

Daisy winces, but she leans forward towards Jon. "What were they doing?"

"Hide-and-seek. I've been informed that this child had been enamoured with hunting animals and any subject matter to do with them," Jon explains. "It is such an innocuous start. It's almost unfair It latched on to him like that."

"And how'd you handle it?"

"Had to," Jon lets out a shaky exhale. "Had to Compel the student to Stop, and Look, and Come back."

"Did it work?"

"Yes," Jon says simply, refusing to let his guilt over Compelling a child, no matter how innocuous the commands, wash through him. He's done what he had to, and it hadn't hurt the student. He just had to keep reminding himself of that. He's also demanded, almost _prayed_ , that the Hunt stay away from this child, from _any_ child. 

Daisy nods in approval. "Good, good."

"I also got him to the counsellor so he can talk about his odd new urges, and reminded him that he can always say _no_ to it, make him be more… mindful," Jon explains further, and Daisy raises her eyebrows in surprise. 

"That is… Sims, I believe that might actually take him out of its clutches altogether. Let him work through whatever fear manifests when it happens. He probably doesn't even realise what it is." A small smile forms on Daisy's lips. "Hell, bet I'd probably have resisted the call much better if I just got some goddamn therapy."

"You really think so?" 

"No," Daisy huffs a mirthless laugh. "Not for me, at least. I was in too deep and had made a conscious decision to say _yes_ , basically. But for the kid? I'd say you gave him a fighting chance."

Jon lets out the breath he's holding. Relief warms him thoroughly, and before he can say anything further, his stomach decides to make itself known and growls loudly. He scratches his head in embarrassment.

Daisy's smile widens. "Hungry?" 

Jon nods. "Starving. Takeaway?" 

"Could kill for some pizza."

Jon raises his mobile, and shakes it for emphasis. "No need for that; we can just call it in." 

"Funny," deadpans Daisy, and Jon laughs. "I'll call it in, you put on the movie?"

Daisy hums in agreement. "My choice this time, yea?" 

Jon mock-grimaces at her. "Sure I can't tempt you into a good documentary instead of whatever romantic abomination you'll put on?" 

"Say any more, Sims, and I'll put on the cheesiest romcom I can think of and make you suffer through it the whole night." 

Jon snorts a laugh. They're fine now, they're safe, and sometimes, that's enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: canon typical violence, suspenseful themes, horror themes, CHILDREN in horrorific themes, general warnings for Jon compelling a child (in a good way!), out of body experiences, disassociation, blood, and The Hunt and all it entails


	9. The Flesh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made like the Spiral and lied - sorry folks! The End just wasn’t coming (lol) so I had to skip and go straight to the Flesh.
> 
> It’s another Jon special today! The Flesh is a tricky thing to write for, and I don’t particularly want to explore a child’s psyche on it, so Jon observing and doing something about it is good enough for me.
> 
> ALSO HAPPY NEW YEAR I JUST- I know it's been a while and it's been... 2020, and you all know what I mean. BUT ANYWAY, EVEN IF SHORT, HERE YOU GO. Content Warnings is at the end notes PLEASE HEED THEM.

"Your face is like cheese."

Grubby little hands dusted in crackers grab Jon's face by his cheeks. "Cheese. Like the one with holes that mice eat."

"Is… that good or bad?" Jon asks, and gingerly disengages from the hands of the child. "Boundaries, remember?"

"S'rry," Frannie mumbles through a mouthful. 

"Chew and swallow with your mouth closed."

"Yeah," Frannie says. "I forgot."

"Mhm," Jon responds noncommittally. He bites into the sandwich Martin packed for him primly, and chews slowly. 

"That's bread," Frannie says.

Jon tips his head, "Astute observation. That means you observed correctly."

Frannie smiles toothily. "Kelly, my sister, says that bread is not okay, because it has a lot of ca-lo-rees and carbs.”

Frannie pushes around the crackers into something resembling a geometric shape. She then crushes the corners. "Kelly also says that crackers are not okay because of the same reason, but since I’m young it’s fine for now.”

“Oh?”

"Yeah! Also potatoes are not okay, which makes me sad, because I love potatoes," Frannie nods decisively. "But if Kelly says it's not okay, then it's not okay."

Something niggles at the back of Jon's mind, something important, but he ignores it for now. Instead, he opts to give Frannie the sincerest smile he can manage, despite the mental red flags presently waving. "Sounds like you really love Kelly."

"I love Kelly very much," Frannie declared, and Jon pats her on the head. Jon finishes his sandwich, and gets back to rearranging his things for the next activity. 

The following week, and Jon finds himself once more in the role of assistant, sitting with Frannie James as she eats. 

"Strawberries today, Ms James?" 

Frannie nods enthusiastically. "Kelly likes strawberries. Blueberries are not okay, but strawberries are okay. She says just this much," the child gestures at the container filled to the brim with strawberries, "is enough for one day."

"It's certainly a healthy snack," Jon says, and Frannie shrugs. 

"Kelly says it's good enough for the whole day, but I need more, she says, because I'm still growing," Frannie explains. "But I want to try, because Kelly says trying is good and food can be plob-l-poblm-probm-not okay."

The red flags from last week wave at Jon again, and this time with blinding and deafening sirens. Jon frowns, and he can feel the Eye seeking, latching on to seeds of fear. However, as alarmed as Jon is, he feels like he still isn’t getting the full story. 

"Frannie," he probes a little. "Does Kelly talk about food constantly?"

"Cons-ta-ly?"

"A lot. Does she talk about food a lot?"

Frannie brightens, mouth red with strawberry pulp. "Yes! She says she wants to be a nuritist."

"A nutritionist?"

"Uh-huh!"

That may explain the fascination with food, Jon thinks. Or, that may excuse the _fixation_ with food. Jon suspects something, but whenever he tries to “check-in” with the Eye, it’s remarkably silent. 

Hopefully it’s nothing - even if Jon knows it never is. 

After a few days, Jon is back at the preschool again. He checks on Frannie, who is pulling out her food from her lunch box.

Almonds. A small pack of almonds, and a few raspberries. “Open, please?” Frannie hands Jon the pack, who opens it dutifully.

“Make sure to carefully chew them - I don’t want you to choke,” Jon says, and Frannie nods. He looks at what seems, to him, less food than normal for the child. “Is this all that you’re eating today, Ms James?”

“I wanted cheese and crackers, but Kelly said these are better because less fat, less sugars, but they have protein, whatever protein is,” Frannie explains. “I miss cheese, but I really want to do what Kelly does.”

Jon tries his best not to frown. “What does Kelly do?”

“She is very careful and measures everything! She taught me how to count cups and measure them, like in baking, but we don’t bake because bread and cake is not good, she said,” Frannie explains as she tries to push an almond into the top of a raspberry. The child puts it in her mouth, and chews slowly and deliberately. “Whenever Mum buys cake, she doesn’t see, but Kelly throws her cake away. I eat mine, but I see Kelly hide hers, and then she flushes them in the toilet. Kelly tells me it’s our secret - oh no! You’re not going to tell anyone else, right, Mr Sims?”

Jon bites his lip, and doesn’t respond to the child’s question. He says instead, “Frannie, you know you’re still growing, right? You can eat crackers, cheese, bread, sandwiches - you’re allowed those, okay? You don’t need to follow Kelly.”

“But my sister says her diet is good! And I really like being good, like her.”

Jon frowns, but before anything else, another child calls him away for help. He doesn’t get the chance to talk to her again that day, but makes a mental note to check on her the next time he ends up at this school.

His chance comes again after a couple of days, and this time, Frannie is crying incessantly during snack time. The other assistants and even the main teacher, Mx Brown, can’t seem to calm her down. The assistants share a quick look among themselves, and Mx Brown shrugs and gestures at Frannie, indicating it’s Jon’s turn to try, and so he goes. “Is there anything I can help you with, Ms James?”

“I don’t want a sandwich! Sandwiches are not okay!” Frannie insists. She attempts to throw her wrapped sandwich on the floor, but Jon catches the food in time.

“Let’s talk about the sandwich - I won’t force you to eat them, but I need you to calm down so I can understand you.”

Frannie nods, and hiccups. Jon hands her a juicebox, but she shakes her head and instead grabs her water bottle from the bag. Jon sits beside her, and coaxes the child to match his breathing. Frannie eventually stops crying, and accepts the tissue Jon hands her.

“Mum gave me egg mayo sandwiches for lunch and I- I-” Frannie hiccups again, and Jon can see her eyes water. 

“It’s okay to cry since you’re upset, but if you start again I’ll have trouble understanding you,” Jon says, and Frannie nods once more. “Don’t you like egg mayo?”

“I do, I love eggs, but Kelly says that bread isn’t okay! And mayo has a lot of oil which Kelly says is bad! And I just want to be good and I don’t want to be bad to my body!” Frannie starts crying again, and throws herself into Jon’s arms. Jon pats her on the back and makes soothing noises, as he lets the child calm down on her own. 

“Don’t worry, I won’t force you to eat,” Jon says absently, as he thinks. He needs to talk to Frannie’s mum later, when she gets picked up, after talking to Mx Brown about what he’s observed.

It’s going to be a long day.

\---

“Not to your liking, Jon?” Martin asks with concern, as Jon pushes the pasta around on his plate.

Jon blinks up at Martin, and shakes his head. “No, no, it’s lovely Martin, I promise.”

Martin frowns. “Is it a student?”

Jon sighs. “Yes,” he says, and carefully twirls his fork to get a strand. “She’s just four years old, Martin, and of all that can latch on to her…”

“I don’t think any of them latching on to a four-year-old is okay,” Martin offers, and Jon smiles a little.

“You’re right, of course, I just mean,” Jon huffs. “It’s the Flesh, Martin. It doesn’t have any business with children, much less preschoolers. It… the Eye wasn’t - it wasn’t - I didn’t get - it wanted to just _drink_ , and drink, and it's like it understood that the moment I find a way to fix it the fear would be siphoned away into nothing, and I fear that I'm too late. I'd suspected for weeks but haven't been sure until today."

Martin put down his fork. He pulled his seat closer to Jon, and continued with his dinner as he sat closer beside his husband. Their shoulders brushed occasionally, and Jon started to relax. 

"Her sister's sick," Jon explains further. "It doesn't- it's not the Entities, she needs help, but the Flesh took advantage of the child's hero-worship and latched on to the wisps of fear that was shared, and made it grow.

"She cried over a sandwich, Martin," Jon finishes, rubbing his eyes. He exhales, picks up his fork again, and continues eating. Or at least, tries to. 

"I know Jon, I could see how much this upsets you," Martin says. He puts his hand on Jon's knee. "You take it really hard, especially when they're in primary or younger, and I don't blame you."

"And the Eye - it won't stop. It's… since I'm starving it, it, I suppose it tries to take what it can get," Jon says. He sags in his chair a little. "Even with its powers diminished, it still _wants_."

"But you helped, Jon, you still did," Martin points out. "How did you take care of it?"

"I told the mum about her younger daughter, and the influence of the older, and… that's it. That's all I can do," Jon answers. "Just sometimes-"

"You wish you can do more, like have the Ceaseless Watcher zap it out of existence?"

Jon lets out a small, mirthless laugh. "I can't believe I’m sitting here, missing even the tiniest part of the actual apocalypse."

Martin smiles, and gives Jon a hug. "I know, Jon. You had the power to… well, to 'fix' things then. It may not be the same now, but-"

"I still help and do my best," Jon continues. He gives Martin a chaste kiss on the lips. "Thank you, Martin."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Eating Disorder
> 
> If you or anyone you know experience this, I hope you seek help and support. I did my best to treat this topic with respect.
> 
> HOPEFULLY the next bit gets written soon! The ones that are left are... getting more and more difficult, and that's why they're taking longer and longer, but I WILL finish!


End file.
